deepundergroundpoetry.com

Moving with the speed of molasses

my mind regurgitates
various scenarios ridiculous and not so
mercilessly assaulting my sense of self and security
leaving me fucking tired and untrusting and pissed off
at myself
at you
at the trees and the kids and the smiling faces
in the crowded city streets that seem to mock me
and laugh at me with their knowledge of happiness and kindness
and sanity
that mythological creature that exists in the dreams of my childhood
that once was there to champion me
from the monster under the bed
or the dragon in the closet
or the belt in daddy's drawer
or the slap at the end of daddy's arm
or the tears at the end of mommy's day
as she wipes the ketchup off the floor of her heart
and cleans the splattered mustard and vinegar cocktail
off her tired and hungry soul
as we watch
we three kings of peanut butter jar
as mommy smiles and cleans
and cleans and cleans and cries
and screams for Mr. Sanity to come and take her away
to her Calgon Club Med
where the sheets are always clean and dinner is always perfect
and always eaten on irreplaceable but unbreakable china
with shiny silver spoons with emblems and family crests
and teapots spilling forth golden teas
from China and Africa and India and other places that don't really exist
where the puppies are always clean and full and happy
and the kitties need only their catnip and string to wile away the lazy days
of selfless pleasures
where the children cry
only because they skinned their knees or lost their tea
or some such silly hindrance to happiness
where blood is a color only imagined in the occasional nightmare
caused by eating too much chocolate or gingerbread
or some other triviality in the course of an irrepressibly spontaneous
and unstructured day of obtaining life's essence in a hand basket
that isn't reserved for trips to hell
but trips to the toy store or the candy store or the bakery
to pick up loaves of love
to distribute to the kids at Christmas
to go with their big fat synthetic turkeys on Christmas day
becaus they don't shoot turkeys, do they?
sleigh bells ring as we listen to tales of long nights
of Jesus chillin' in manger with Ma Mary and Pa Joseph
ringing in a whole new perspective that didn't quite take
because there were just too many people
with bad attitudes and even worse habits
who really liked to do stuff that wasn't quite right
and sometimes very wrong
and this Jesus person became quite vocal in his opinions and teachings
and he pissed alot of people off
partly because he scared them but mostly because he was right
and so they kicked his ass
hung him out to dry
persecuted his people
and generally made a big ruckus over the fact that Jesus had a great idea:

Just be fucking nice to each other!
Written by puckit (S.A. Elrod)
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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