Deficit

Were words not overused
as they are,
perhaps
there would be more dignity
in ‘grief’,
that is to say,
the vicissitudes of turbulence
in the ravaged valley of the ‘heart’,
that serves
as contemptible metaphor
for the entirety of one’s substance
susceptible to ‘despair’,
the kind
that makes you despise
the glass half-full
and envy
the sound of ‘laughter’
made in blissful ignorance
of the barbarity
of cold ‘time’,
which is,
as Dad used to say,
just “a unit
          used to measure
          the changes
          of nature”.

 

From Book IV

Noise

It
will
get
better.

Let time heal.

Stop torturing yourself!

You need to pick yourself back up.
There’s nothing more you could’ve done.
There’s no way that you could’ve known.
This isn’t something we can change.

You’ll start to drive yourself insane..

You can’t give up.
You can’t break down.
You cannot just
d  i  s  i  n  t  e  g  r  a  t  e.

You can’t just keep thinking.
can’t just keep brooding.
can’t just keep bleeding.

There’s nothing more that you could do…

 

 

YEAH WELL YOU KNOW WHAT, FUCK YOU TOO!!!
I know I still got work to do.
As what he would have said to you.

 

From Book IV

Gauze

It doesn’t help..!
this irate
and bitter writing in powerless agony.

 

Like alcohol,
it doesn’t dull
that ..sinking
feeling one gets
on disinterring
an indispensable
image..
that no longer
exists
in places
other than the heart.

 

At least cheap
whisky, in a while,
fogs the senses
and knocks you cold… while
..a metamorphosis of despairing thoughts to disquiet expression..
in contrariety,
keeps you waking
and alert
as in excision without anesthetics,
at times… with words
to stopple
too much bleeding.

 

 

From Book IV