"I've got this killer up inside of me... I can't talk to my mother, (friends, women, coworkers, associates, affiliates, city council, the internets, the homeless or even your mother) so I talk to my diary."

-that Scarface song from Office Space

Gemma's Arm


Is there anything gentle
Or man left
In this dichotomy of my compound?

The weather
Is of ice but
Just like the temperament of a woman
Splashes slush under my foot.

God is like a kitten
When petted
But turns to bite and scratch
The smitten
He has overcast.

Beneath me is man
All but gentle
A sailor’s hands, and mind
Revoked to molten gold
Accepting rental on his whole
Existence, undermined.

Coked out on rage
There is adrenaline to be assuaged.
And boredom
Bordering on that of a reticent wave
Encumbering an oceanic,
Recumbent enclave.

The sound in it’s crashing
Seems to arrive from everywhere
Continually resounding,
Consorting reprieve
High from seaweed and saline
Extradition to Leviathan
Will largely remain
As a largesse
Of relief!

Excise on youth
Fountain of death.
I give you sooth,
To survive on what’s left
Immortality is no gift.

This, a pair of ears destined
To fill the gap of living
Siphoning Vodka distilled in hell
Between them,
Every blink passes by a week
Beyond he cannot think
In two thousand and seventy-nine more winks
Man is over
And resigned to lore,
Moral enlightenment
As pension, finds you,
All too well.

History in unanimity
And your tranquility are in extremis
Forever reclusive,
Superannuated, sodden
Yet extreme in this,
Do I survive
In the habitation
Of being right,
However rotten.

FinaleĀ  II
-Wednesday, December 31, 2008

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