Emphatically

With thinly veiled testosteronic verse, you think
it’s poetic prose, but you’re just a poetic poser

Thrusting your priapic pentameter rather erratically,
flexing your lazy wrist and tumescence emphatically

You think the louder you write, the more they will listen,
show them your manliness, force your muscle to glisten

well word slinger, words linger well

They befoul the atmosphere when the airs are put on,
and then leave an aftertaste once the postering is gone

They attempt to obfuscate your apparent inadequacies,
but each line exposes your delusional fantasies

Of a long, silver tongue and matching silver fingers,
when all you can lay is your hand on the paper

art: Selbstbildnis by Ludwig Meidner

Obtusion

Obreptitious obtusion, a brume
blurring periphery, turbid blinders
marshaling the focus of roaming
attentions; phosphenes dancing for

distraction, a seductive temptation
to engage mental vacuity; his defense
mechanism hiding horrors and masking
merriment – horrors in their own right;

zoomorphologically thrusting his head
into the sands of time, waiting for
the remains of his body to join; an
evolutionary dereliction of societal

participation, insouciance learned
a posteriori; life is a merciless pedagogue,
rapping the knuckles of its insubordinates,
the recalcitrants of its self-proclaimed

preciousness…

art: Masterstudy 39 by Christian Klute

Careless rant

To care, about anything; anything
in everything, looking for a reason;
a propensity for nihilism, but without
really caring if there is a purpose;
thinking in circles, corralling the

dragonflies through rings of fire,
writing one down before one of you
expires; anhedonic submission, blank
stares, habitual nods, and smiles
seconds late; forgetting to be there,

in the moment, any moment, appearing
human to stave the questions, to hide
the emptiness; an emptiness without
questions or concerns, acceptance of
the way things are, because it’s the

only way things could be; seeing the
paths, extrapolating their outcomes ad
infinitum, predicting the conclusions;
perverted chess with life and death,
without a king or queen on your side;

a war between willpower and attrition,
with exactly one possible outcome;
why bother looking, they don’t want
broken; two brokens putting their
parts together, begets only suffering;

one broken plus one not, equals two
broken, too broken; offers proffered
and rescinded in a single breath, a rotten
carrot for the ass; buridan’s ass agonizing
between a catch 22 and sophie’s choice;

…can’t even care for a cathartic post

art: Immortal Ephemera : Insecta – Dragonfly by Stephanie Pui-Mun Law

Notorious

Hers was a notorious disease, crippling. The lamb’s slaughter for most, the lion’s share for those whose madness was brought to bear; until they too were brought to slaughter. An existential blemish, she found nary equipoise nor heartsease in her quotidian quiescence.

An only child sans a brother’s stillbirth, whom she always supposed was the more sagacious; privvy to ominous knowledge that escaped her – about the world or big sister, she was keen to know. His brief presence, inhered in her an avant-garde avarice to quell this question.

Left pacing outside the cages, the lioness concluded that the best source for the answer she sought, must be those who have yet embraced that fate. Fortunately, she found accomplices in her patients, who supported the quest, albeit unknowingly.

She trusted her intuition after their office visits, a sense for which little ones were conflicted. They number six now, those she’s asked, after the mothers were lured to her clean room. It was the only way to question their unborns.

Often the last word she’d hear was “why,” which was a gratifying confirmation of her purpose. They, too, wanted to know in their final breath. Why their baby? Well, why hers… Or was it brother? It was confusing, her mutinous muddlement.

The gorging predator rarely thinks clearly beyond the carcass, unsatisfying though it may be. She’d found no answers yet to assuage her torment. So she’ll rouge her skin instinctually, on the hunt for her share of the truth, until to her slaughter she’s drawn.

art: The Night-Hag Visiting Lapland Witches by Henry Fuseli