If I’m not a modern man,
then I’m just a
post traumatic heretical fleabag,
a rebel with a cause, just one that’ll
involve a plate load of legal tendons
and a chance to cut
the argument to the bone.
Nature should feed itself with the slow
decomposition of human consciousness. Even
Queen said ‘who wants to live forever’ and
right now they’re still a bunch of fags, all
grey on top and wrinkled in the middle, their
seams slowly splitting.
I believe in the unbelief that binds us to our
inner systems. Religion has it’s own
dark matter, it’s a beast that does not come
to slay the world but rather rot the fertile
minds from the inside pages of their own book.
It’s like that time when the string of a yo-yo
snapped in the middle, it could only spin
and weave through the world at half the speed
until it staggered to an abrupt halt in
a foreign hand.
I’m off drugs for the most part. I mean the ones
that really dirty the exhaust pipe of time. We’re
not clever to use water in cars, so why should I
stop smoking? The last time I checked we were still
making fast food inflate those fat fuckers, and cheap
enough to fill any hungry beggar with a dizzy dose
of carbs and maybe a tearful of vitamins.
I’m pre-packed with pathos. The pub does that when
you’ve been there long enough and watched that fairy
in the glass, not the one of allure, but the one telling
you there is a wife at home with a warm body buried in
bed, and a toddler climbing through the clay in his head.
Maybe it’s time you had one more gulp to saturate the
sobbing behind your eyes, only the real people can see.
Every night I get home that rocking chair on the porch
greets me. I can imagine my old man sitting there watching
my poor choices and smoky clothes. Parents can look at you
in a deeper way where time slows down to a syrupy slur. I
only see him at night when that house opens out it’s
gentle vernacular of foibles and whispers. I like to
think it’s helping me grow into that armchair of life,
and leave behind a smile for the photographs.