"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

To Scud, Indifferently

-VI-

The mind carries on
a-melodic
a wishing well
to which a quarter’s cast
not to the Ferry across Acheron
but for the preliminary
towards stopping the rhyme
that plagues me now.

A wind I hearkened
so long ago,
whistling by my ears…
deteriorates
incubates,
and deafens the sound
inculcating
extraneous,
yet righteous
rebellion.

A liar
and by design
a girl, silver-skinned
and passions malignant
which I had kindled
mistakenly,
whilst my morals
were wrought iron
and although
her corpse is mythos
I have spliced into lore…
the doggerel keeps coming back for more of me!

I bypass the earth,
let it scuddle towards you
in form of
the powerful indignation
and indifferent
consternation
which only a lascivious carnivore
can provide.

To survive,
I huddle when
crawled inside…
the descant of my own pride.

I scud the earth
without a thought to the second…
All I demand is an exit!

-Tuesday, December 16, 2008

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