melancholia

Melancholy

This is a blue day it is like having a ring
of steel pressing against my head.
Nothing matters there is no outlet and I want to go home,
anywhere, to get away from myself.
I sit on the terrace look at the view it is fucking boring
bloody sea like I shouldn’t have seen it before
after thirty years as a mariner.
This morning I saw athletic people running along the promenade
I sat in my car looked at my considerable stomach,
so that is what has become of me a fat old man sinking into
the woollen atmosphere of self-loathing the hatred against
the world only a loser feels.
Sexless, useless old age has made me a eunuch whatever this
means I might have got the wrong spelling of the word and
my own poetry is not uplifting, too harmful to be read by anyone
who isn't contemplating suicide?
Fuck it all I will write no more, go sit in a bar till they throw me out.