Tag Archives: pain

When Dreams Become Dried Husks

It’s always time for the rodeo
now that I’ve firmly accepted
the fetal position
as a way of life.

Because when doubt comes barging in
like a mad cocaine pirate
I welcome it on board
with streamers and balloons.

She says that I used to be somebody
while the mirror lies
in the trash
in her yard

and my dreams
have become dried husks
so much that I pray for
monsters
under my bed.

The Demonic Bathroom Tiles Get Me Everytime

It could be in the mirror
behind you
seen just for a second
or spotted in a photograph
-something that doesn’t make natural sense.

It could be you.
It could be me or
it could be something else.

You decide.
I’m tired of trying to
discern ghosts from the blonde next door.

“You have a comfortable bed.” She said.
Though it was the third time she’s used it.
“Thanks.” I muttered best I could
as the toothbrush viciously scoured my bottom row,
me being a fervent believer in oral hygiene and all.

The tube was spent and when I turned to the trash to discard it
that’s when I saw it:
The patterns on a single tile of stained linoleum
appeared to be forming into a visage.
The more I grew fixated on it
the clearer it became
until it sharply resembled the face
of somebody screaming.
The eyes were blank with terror and
the lips stretched back far as they could go.

I would only know such pain
if I were in Hell
and that’s where this face came from
as it was a window directly into the bottom
of God’s boiler.

I began to hear the cries
of a thousand souls
-a million.

I thought of death, war, Walmart, eternal suffering, Cthulhu, diabolic torture, George W. Bush.

It was pulling me in.
It was pulling me in.

“What are you doing, Silly? You’re dripping.”
She smiled in the doorway, laughed, rushed down the stairs.

I looked back to the floor. I could no longer see it
so I spit, rinsed, spit and followed.

It was time for me to cook some eggs
with the Peameal bacon left over from camping.

It was a lovely Sunday morning.

She’s Angry and You Don’t Remember What You’ve Done Because You’re Such a Wasteful Drunk

Boom.
There she was
all up in my face
all over it
everywhere
like saran wrap
but much worse.

Eyes wide wild and crazy.
Teeth gnashing out words
spitting
grinding
pointing
screaming
about something I did wrong
and that it was the last time
the final straw
as I was now in the pisser
the shitter
the doghouse
the dump.

Yes, I was in all kinds of heathen trouble
since the bad news kitty-cat became a Bengal tiger
and now it was flowing
-such harsh words from such hot lips-
as she unleashed a boiling cauldron of fury
right into the lap of my soul.

I tried to follow.
I tried to follow.
I couldn’t follow.

Evac and evade!
Evac and evade!
I couldn’t even get up.

All I could do was look at her
and wonder what it was
that I did wrong
because I was drunk again
and at the point where I usually stumbled
into the great big nothing
that I called sleep.

Finally, she marched off
like she was adequately prepared
to eviscerate the entire housing complex.

I was still wondering what I had done
that was so engagingly disrupting to her
inner calm.

I shrugged.
I had no idea.

I suppose that I would
find out tomorrow and that
my life would be
Hell
for a little while.

The Junkyard Dog Bleeds

My love of words
is large and mean
and my heart
-it’s just a junkyard dog that
growls at nothing
and gnaws at old bones
until they’re dust.

I have become so much better
since I’ve obtained a strong handle
on the absurdity of myself
but still
there’s nothing easier
than picking up a bottle
when you’re heart is bleeding
all over the floor.