deepundergroundpoetry.com
Prelude to Homicide
I’m destined for something awful.
The smartphone speaks, the TV sings,
the toaster itself is a knave at the ball
commanding me to strike where it stings.
I’m sixteen now and it won’t get better
than this, the humiliations of life
stretched out to last like old leather,
how dad, appalled, each day looks you over.
He knows you’ll never find a wife,
and mum knows too, they laugh to themselves
at night not realising what voices come
through their machines, that write your dreams.
The devils that dance in your skull,
that make you unloved by child or man.
A sheer mundanity, a loneliness awaits
if you resist the devil’s pull.
I started as I… but now I’m you… I can’t
keep even tenses clear. You barely know what
I’m to do. When asked why I picked up the knife,
you’ll say because I’ll never find a wife.
The smartphone speaks, the TV sings,
the toaster itself is a knave at the ball
commanding me to strike where it stings.
I’m sixteen now and it won’t get better
than this, the humiliations of life
stretched out to last like old leather,
how dad, appalled, each day looks you over.
He knows you’ll never find a wife,
and mum knows too, they laugh to themselves
at night not realising what voices come
through their machines, that write your dreams.
The devils that dance in your skull,
that make you unloved by child or man.
A sheer mundanity, a loneliness awaits
if you resist the devil’s pull.
I started as I… but now I’m you… I can’t
keep even tenses clear. You barely know what
I’m to do. When asked why I picked up the knife,
you’ll say because I’ll never find a wife.
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