deepundergroundpoetry.com
For Mira
It’s a funeral. It’s a loss. That’s why there are no words.
There’s nothing documented between
Aardvark
And
Zyzzyva
That can fill the void
Of you
In my life,
Nor frame
My utter
Devastation
Nothing
That will unwound you, but
The day is long and
Boring, so
I fucking dance,
Kick up my
Heels,
Amidst
The dim
Procession
I fuck stupid
I, stupid fuck
I, Exilis
I fuck things up
Hey, ditty ditty
And there’s nothing pithy, there’s
Only
Ache
That rises from the
Disturbed
Earth of its
Frequented
Grave,
To haunt, to
Dog
My thinning steps
In the focal crux
Of your disappointment, every
Gesture
Bent
By the dire
Gravity of your
Frigid
Distance,
If I
Were more
Than words,
Words wouldn’t have been enough
To warrant barbs, you openly
Justified, in their
Application
So, here’s my lash
And when
It’s quiet, we’ll play
Tag
And press sheets
Of paper
To the wounds
Pollock was an alcoholic, but I
Have you,
Your spectre,
To blood me
So crucify me in your cruelly
Unmovable
Characterization,
For my missteps,
And call it
Justice,
Just desserts,
Plum pudding,
Blood sausage
And in this paradigm of
Utter
Absurdity, we
Find ourselves
Hurled about a
Dark cosmos, where
Twenty years
Of solitude
Are rewarded
By a sumptuous meal, before
A clinical execution,
Witnessed
By interested parties
Draw back the curtain, only
So far,
Hold up the billet,
For all
To see,
Hear ye, hear ye,
I wasn’t good enough,
I didn’t measure
Up,
We’re too fucking perfect
For each other,
Too fucking perfect,
So,
Replace me
With someone better,
Build them a fucking monument,
So you can drape me
In its cold shadow
I’m here, apparently, the greater evil,
Neck bowed
By a disproportionate
Weight
Of Machiavellian horns,
On this corner
Of abandonment
I’ll moisten the old tape
Wrapped
Around my heart,
Smooth it down
With a thumb and when it
Curls
Back up, I’ll
Do it over, and I’ll
Do it again,
My mother’s arthritis has flared up, so
I’ll make her breakfast
And smile at the inane game shows that
Divert
Her attention
Later,
I’ll squat beside Archimedes
And chalk the floors
And on the social sites I’m something
Dread
Awed,
Like a gorilla
Behind bars,
Unapproachable,
Somewhere between its gargantuan
Beauty and unpredictable
Might
Or
They collect me like
Baseball cards
To fill a plastic sleeve
Between
Thursday and
January and
Nothing
That I am
Is felt,
Just like you
I’m not human
To any of you,
I’m just an alphabet
All we are and
Have been, is
Lost
In wars,
Innumerable,
In their destructive
Force
We're tossing and
Turning
In the bed
We've unmade
And all I say is
(Miss)
Construed
For pride
And the wound
Grins its 26
Teeth
Through the screen
And why is sometimes a vowel
Rain seeps through
Overhead
Cracks and when
Fallen
In abundance,
Creeps
Under doors
If I’m nothing real to you,
You surveyor of
Letters,
Picture me as
Pots and
Brooms, imagine me
As echoed
Wounds,
Circling avenues
If you hear nothing else, hear
My truth,
There are no words.
Hear my
Footfalls,
As I search for you
There’s nothing documented between
Aardvark
And
Zyzzyva
That can fill the void
Of you
In my life,
Nor frame
My utter
Devastation
Nothing
That will unwound you, but
The day is long and
Boring, so
I fucking dance,
Kick up my
Heels,
Amidst
The dim
Procession
I fuck stupid
I, stupid fuck
I, Exilis
I fuck things up
Hey, ditty ditty
And there’s nothing pithy, there’s
Only
Ache
That rises from the
Disturbed
Earth of its
Frequented
Grave,
To haunt, to
Dog
My thinning steps
In the focal crux
Of your disappointment, every
Gesture
Bent
By the dire
Gravity of your
Frigid
Distance,
If I
Were more
Than words,
Words wouldn’t have been enough
To warrant barbs, you openly
Justified, in their
Application
So, here’s my lash
And when
It’s quiet, we’ll play
Tag
And press sheets
Of paper
To the wounds
Pollock was an alcoholic, but I
Have you,
Your spectre,
To blood me
So crucify me in your cruelly
Unmovable
Characterization,
For my missteps,
And call it
Justice,
Just desserts,
Plum pudding,
Blood sausage
And in this paradigm of
Utter
Absurdity, we
Find ourselves
Hurled about a
Dark cosmos, where
Twenty years
Of solitude
Are rewarded
By a sumptuous meal, before
A clinical execution,
Witnessed
By interested parties
Draw back the curtain, only
So far,
Hold up the billet,
For all
To see,
Hear ye, hear ye,
I wasn’t good enough,
I didn’t measure
Up,
We’re too fucking perfect
For each other,
Too fucking perfect,
So,
Replace me
With someone better,
Build them a fucking monument,
So you can drape me
In its cold shadow
I’m here, apparently, the greater evil,
Neck bowed
By a disproportionate
Weight
Of Machiavellian horns,
On this corner
Of abandonment
I’ll moisten the old tape
Wrapped
Around my heart,
Smooth it down
With a thumb and when it
Curls
Back up, I’ll
Do it over, and I’ll
Do it again,
My mother’s arthritis has flared up, so
I’ll make her breakfast
And smile at the inane game shows that
Divert
Her attention
Later,
I’ll squat beside Archimedes
And chalk the floors
And on the social sites I’m something
Dread
Awed,
Like a gorilla
Behind bars,
Unapproachable,
Somewhere between its gargantuan
Beauty and unpredictable
Might
Or
They collect me like
Baseball cards
To fill a plastic sleeve
Between
Thursday and
January and
Nothing
That I am
Is felt,
Just like you
I’m not human
To any of you,
I’m just an alphabet
All we are and
Have been, is
Lost
In wars,
Innumerable,
In their destructive
Force
We're tossing and
Turning
In the bed
We've unmade
And all I say is
(Miss)
Construed
For pride
And the wound
Grins its 26
Teeth
Through the screen
And why is sometimes a vowel
Rain seeps through
Overhead
Cracks and when
Fallen
In abundance,
Creeps
Under doors
If I’m nothing real to you,
You surveyor of
Letters,
Picture me as
Pots and
Brooms, imagine me
As echoed
Wounds,
Circling avenues
If you hear nothing else, hear
My truth,
There are no words.
Hear my
Footfalls,
As I search for you
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 23
reading list entries 14
comments 33
reads 1235
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.