POS

What I originally had planned to put here had no poetic merit to it at all; simple a rant to a boy who isn't easy to love. Who doesn't know that story? It can't even be sold because it's all too familiar and people don't want to buy what they live through time and time again.

So I'll try again later.

PIECE OF SHIT.

Another snippet, untitled.

I don't mind, sweetheart--
bring those troubles too.
If you need to bag them up to carry them all,
I've got room enough for your heartache.

I don't have money, I don't have collaterol
but I have strength enough for the both of us
and every day I get stronger so that I can hold you up
maybe that tomorrow you can look toward the crowd
and feel worthy of their adoration.

Untitled, as of yet

I guess we've said all that was meant to be said,
those lovely things we dream of childishly in the morning,
become scuffed up and dirty by the time we go to bed.

What about that dusk scene that is so used,
can we say anything about that?
Any words to describe how each sunset is unremarkable
because we're not surprised anymore?

(This could be a beginning, middle, or end of poem. From midnights, locked in a public pool.)

Naive, August

Can't memorize everyone and their lines
but their voices aren't so distinct either
afraid everyone's melting; too soon
the magic is gone.

I refuse to give in to your victimization,
I'll use my imagination to pretend you're better
than you ever really were.

Those who tell the truth say you're a piece of shit,
and although I know it would be right to believe them
they are also momentos of a fat bastard's dinner,
and I'll keep you just the same, you little shit.

Evolve Already

Oh, Jon--I've heard you complain
that you are too young to understand
this life, and existence, and you're pathetic
in my book--
against that sunset tonight,
you look absolutely prehistoric,
a barbarian, neanderthal,
I've been waiting for you to evolve
so that maybe we could have dinner
civilly, humanely, diginity
alas,
you remain poorly coordinated,
nonverbal, grunts and groats,
simply discovering fire makes you hot
and I'm bothered by your amazement at simple things,

I care very little about you anymore, Jon--
go to your cave and come back a man,
with shoes, and short hair,
and learned and literate and not putrid
for the sake of being putrid.

Brush your teeth, guy--
who could even try to love you?