surviving lament

1

maybe sensitivity's
disease in certain minds

the willingness to see
gilded profundity
in blue fog on a morn passing
beside a train window

everything beautiful's also sad
in the right (or the wrong) sort of brain

and while nursing my tic for the melancholic
I can say that I'm bored
of that type of pain

when all that you get is another big step
towards middle-age and low insulin

the crisp orange rind on a sunset begets
resentment alongside the hurt

2

for all my mother's warblings
of working and lower-class pain

her seeming affinity
for the loser's infinity
of welfare and benches and beer

all she did was lose respect
and even my love over time

and now I don't see her at all

the tragedy is that there's no tragedy
just more and more meaningless years