it’s not dark.
it’s not cold.
it would be easier
if it were dark and cold
to feel this sullen despair
at the very manifestation of the world;
all of it filled with mother fuckers
and trees that look better on fire.
(Rage up when you feel small
and step on some part of someone
that stepped on the softest parts of you.
You wont feel better or bigger or any er;
just more of the same fear and insecurity.)
There’s thousands upon thousands
of row houses of happiness awaiting collapse
in neglect and self-absorbed assumptions:
human progress in the arts of love
passes at a glacier’s pace
despair in all its ugly, wretched truth:
failure upon failure upon failure,
old desperate rocks stacked high
precariously waiting for victims
to approach the summit of their disaster
just so we can wear a body cast
for another hundred lifetimes
after the fall-out in bed.
despair in its joy at merely being:
consumed in the very existence of something:
still more than a void, a hole,
a coma of spirit anesthetized for survival
(The rage exists because the fear exists)
If it were cold and dark,
I could shatter my teeth on a porcelain toilet
and stop these words that weigh in for prizefights:
I could paint everything white with red
and live in recurring nightmares
with a spot of white left untouched
and I’ve no more blood to give
If it were cold and dark,
I could lie down and sleep forever
in the filth that I exist in w/o regard
to ever trying to be a better person, kinder,
repaying karma for my sins against love;
Were it cold and dark, I could only sleep.
screaming at low volumes
