Death Wish

A Tidbit Of Denny's

A crazy little psycho

With tattoos across his face

Haunts the aisles of Denny's

Like he owned the fucking place.

It's early in the evening.

I came just after 9.

Why must they seat the lesbians

In booths adjoining mine?

There goes psycho number 1,

Making his egress,

The first of many. We are pawns

In nature's game of chess.

And I'll make mine.

It's nearly 10.

The place is getting loud.

People who have nothing are

Inestimably proud.

4-16-14

Phantom Love

Always thinking I'm loved

By people who don't know me,

I don't see the motley world

So easily forgo me.

Or happy to refute

This moment of my youth

Glad to have me with him

While he spits out bits of truth.

I don't live like Proust

In pictures of the past.

I leave that to the devil.

The next succeeds the last.

 

Conceit

At last I am a poet

As though rising from the sea.

These perfectly written pieces

Of music were written by me.

It's an unusual kind of music,

Not in language, but perhaps

In the thoughts and phrases.

Pushing through each lapse

Of talent to the next

Moment of the sea

Drunk by a beautiful angel,

Not blind and deaf like me.

I've always had someone to love -

Only just a friend -

A friend of lust and ambition

To life and to the end.

This verse is very bad,

The rhythm nonexistent.

Still as such it is.

Creation is insistent.

“Creation”! Oh my god!

The poetaster seems

Contented with a talent

That surpasses dreams.

 

The Poor

Starting to discover

As you and wisdom age,

People without means

Will put you in a rage.

Taking what you have

And groping for some more,

As Shaw or Lerner said,

“The undeserving poor.”

Taking what you have

And reaching for the rest,

A little lick of love

From the constant guest.

 

The Wicked

I watch evil constantly

Coming to my house.

Kindness and benevolence

Do nothing to deter it,

But give unhindered freedom

To operate at will.

Evil is an ugly thing,

To see it in the face,

And very often dresses in

A fashion for the part.

More often though it passes without notice.

Then it strikes in smiles,

And your wherewithal is gone.

And if you're kind, forgiving,

Sick or fall in love,

Then you're an endless source to suck.

Mosquitoes by a bog.

 

Death Wish

You absolutely cannot tell a

Person what to,

If he crouched atop a building

And you hollered at him, “Don't!”

There's nothing more reliable

Than carefully written songs,

With all the syllables in place,

And a metaphor.

If he will not do it though

He needs it, then perhaps

He's living in a death wish.

See the people he holds dear.

But do not ask a doctor

Or a social worker what.

They'll pat you on the head and send you

Out again to play.

She's treacherous and greedy

And she plays upon the souls

Whose mothers wished them dead so very

Many years ago.

 

Praise

He gradually sat waiting

For the word that he was good,

And it never came. He finally

Knew it never would.