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Ball and Chain: An Obsession
starring at the screen,
while words, pretending to be poetry
try to take flight,
and I am dying for another drink.
Janis trips in the background
and all I can think of
is how will I make it through the night?
life, with its bitter realities of addiction,
of needing your whiskey coated,
blood crusted kiss
and the rotting feel of your cold, rigid skin.
You smile, inviting me into your oblivion,
your cheap love and unhappiness,
into the sucking hole
between your legs.
It pulls the life from me,
my blood and corruption
flows freely into your womb.
wrapping your thighs around my neck,
emptying me of all feeling,
all hope.
Yet, I am obsessed with you, my love.
How could it be otherwise?
You’ve seen to that,
blowing the smoke from
your opium laced cigs
into my lungs,
addicting me to your lust
and your moonlit corruption.
it means nothing to me.
Oh baby, here I am, see,
laying in the garbage spewed gutter
awaiting for you to ease my obsession,
to fuck me like tomorrow will never come.
And yes baby, hating every second,
hating this addiction,
hating you,
hating these arms, held wide
in anticipation of your cold,
blood crusted lips.
Greedily, I am awaiting your
deadly kiss.
Pretended Poetry
Those blank pages are envious - a hard write this - I call this purge poems, to rid the film over the eyes to let you see a bit better than before - a cleansing, a share-all to everyone, anyone with the right kind of unclogged ears - not a poem to love, wisdom shared to be used and internalized for the example, for the necessity - allets