Numbed Consent

Mold growing on mold

What a souvenir

I light a Marlboro Red and pretend to disappear into the seams of late show talk

On the screen, puppets for complacency dance…ever so near

I could fluff the pillow to a higher state

However comfortable, I could also, puncture what it is…

I stand for

in and out

out and about of this,

numbed consent

A catatonic, petrified

Gentrifying,

be safe…leave no trace

Bare ass, I lay down to stay up late

Searching the cushions for loose change to purchase an empty plate

Life is Bad by S.Lynne

Waste away to nothing in a dark dusty tomb.  Looking for the traces of what used to be a room.  Wipe away the blood from a tormented brow…Solve the wicked problem…never asking, how?  Rock the sinking vessel until it rest on the bottom.  Count the waves of water…  Don’t remember?  Forgot them.  Taste the stench of living on thin dimes and a dream.  Opening an ear to a painful, silent, scream.
Oh, life is BAD!  The worse I’ve ever had.

Ache and writhe in agony like a vise on aging bones.  Tar and acid drip from an ice cram cone.  Holding onto a wind that chases the hell.  Falling  in the darkness of an inner descending well.
Caress transparent night as a demon with a sword.  Speak with an eloquence… never saying a word.  Look into the clarity then erase it with the muck
Lying in a pool of consciousness.  No such thing as luck!

To being a beginner, to inventing the end.  To living with a stranger… never a friend.  Saddle slobbering beast… trouble is abound!  Ride the devil’s bronco never hit the ground.

Oh, life is BAD!  The worse I’ve ever had.

Winter in Oz

Broad is not the outreach.

In the land of weathered Oz.

An influx of flexible impossibility, written among the clouds and stars.

Nature’s waiting room of ‘days to come.’

Pastures green with ivory toppings.

Cowardly lions uttering out,

words of wisdom.

Forest of foresight…

Life in a northern town.

No pots of gold.

No yellow brick road.

Only tin-men made of leftover staples.

Stretching out a poor-man’s rotted maples.

Denim debutantes trading in their ruby reds for gathered treasures at the VFW’s lost and found.

It is a solemn road that leads to life in a northern town.

 

 

Tent in the Woods

Tent City is in the air.

Has it just arrived or…had it always been there?

The hillside is on fire with the anonymous.

Between the purple majesty…lay a forgotten influx.

No post in which to hang our flag.

No tails to be wagged.

michael
MIchael Ginnie: holding a picture of Junior. Junior ended up being surrendered. As Michael puts it, “…the winter outside…ain’t no place for a dog!”

Down country lanes with no true name…

No city grit to meet the feet.

How rural the homeland and it’s deceit.

 

 

Poverty Pond

Poverty Pond, what a lonely drink of water.

Does your name tell a story?

poverty pond 1

Or, has the richness of a thrashed season…stole the glory.

Gaps in the gleam and the glare…illusions of seeming to care.

What would you know of fanfare?

Black as a demon from a stolen heart.

Ugliness sinking from your lost cause.

Where have the ripples revealed all the flaws?