What's wrong with me? I read poems But I can't seem To focus And analyze Worth a penny. Tired. Body tired? Brain tired? Saturated? Ok, some poems Seem to me Full of multi-layers Of different meanings On many levels. Over done. Superfluous complexities.
'I love you'' Words that he was Unable to utter Words he could easily read And thought he understood As they applied to others. Emotions in books And never lived. Like trying to insert Some secret code In a computer.
I love crime novels. The have helped me Through the years To keep most of My evils at bay. Lots of rage, frustration And anger. I keep reading them - Lovingly, I should say. I am now discovering The very dark works Of the Irish author Ken Bruen. His works are As dark as Ireland Can be sometimes. No holds barred And all punches Allowed. Best keep this In fiction. Always Of course.
He loved to suck But always the same One was no longer Enough He wanted a feast, Checked the Internet And found five Willing to fulfill his fantasy. ''I'm not a whore'' he said To the lot (and doing one After the other), ''Whores get paid'' ''I am but a slut, Like the juice, Love the cream'' And licking his lips With the last Invited them all One day for more Mutual pleasure To come back.
So I am lazy. A quick realization After a lifelong Of denials. True, even making love To a woman I found To be hard work. Hard work also just trying To keep head afloat With lousy paying work And, as the saying goes, Forgetting to live While trying to make A living. Giving up for a good while, Breakdowns, welfare, Depressions But now Retired from the Craziness I enjoy A small, very small Pension But at least I am at peace With myself.
On the métro Going for a ride Don't know Where to, yes, Along for the ride The story of my life Being led to Nowhere everywhere But always a tiny Discovery Along the way So I take a picture Somebody somewhere Just might enjoy And that makes My day.