hopelessness



isn’t much life

durable or otherwise

half slumped half bent

in persistent armchairs


swilled with daytime

drudgery, may as well

be a coma victim or lain

out for worms to suck


there’s nothing reclusive

about distilled quiet, it’s

a painful sound of nothing

a murder without commitment


it just is, a pollution of

rotten thumbs all trying

to page thru’ the eulogy

that’s trite and way too skinny


there were no blasts of

excitement no rewarded

early years only the drab

of utter disappointment


crow at the nearly thin

window endeavours to

look smart in a soot

blamed overcoat


pitch deep stares lively

yet lifeless somehow,

a stillness familiar bored

with and succeeds to the


crammed rain threatening

sky, untidy bruises full of

wet to share, nine thirty

morning moans grim ulcers


colour discolours and the

ceiling lowers like a matter

of fact coffin lid, concerned

with who will never visit?


knowing there will none

accompanying no one,

tea that has lost it’s taste

drowned in the gone off-


nitrates of loneliness,

gasping prospers don’t

be fooled the lung doesn’t

care and yearns shallower


and finally, someday

unstoppered for the

attending officer to

mull over


what will the coroner think?

amusement or reflux

pity? summed up succinctly

by ink in a tell tale box


ten twenty seven, mildew

mugs another corner, the

letterbox opens it’s grin and

slobbers out a summons


for some unpaid ghost,

pile up as tiny hills

for a spider to contest

with


eyelids bury themselves

but dreams won’t gather

and entire thoughts

molest their fester


fodder for chairs to

stare unaware outwards

indistinct and dull

interference on repeat


unintelligible pulp vomits

up thru’ the television

screen, conniving

participation, let’s waste


a lifetime, there were

plentiful in heydays gone

and devoured, simply

cannot remember


someone i think i loved

that fizzed thru’ out all

of my veins, scarcely can’t

quite finger or place it


was it a feint narrative a

displaced echo? a favourite

film where all the characters

were dreamy and in one-


another’s singing bones?

could have been an illness

visited, repairing then

bleaching its memory


doorbell stabs at thinking,

don’t move as too covered

in roots, some are sinking

seeking the devil himself


time forages from my time,

am easy as a clock that

has lost it’s stride, take

quicker if needs be


makes slipping into whatever

easier, thirsty? but thirst

implies longing and there

isn’t any such yearning


and now is borrowing

its bland self, am over

and done with please,

please stop borrowing


me



depressive



spoil me with

internal flickers

with oily nudges,

accept the tide’s

bleak unimpressed 

blither


inertia has me

growled down

borrowed to the

bed like hesitant

life support or

thin paleness


can’t let that

sky in, can’t, won't, daren't


rubs the blood’s dire

song into something

eerie, a wound if

you will a hole where

stars are damaged

sprawling


against what is up

only knowing that

basement or tatty

thoughtless strewn-

cellar, bodies of

groped incest dark


there's no such

constellation given

light, no compliant

gesture of hello

but severe feelings

of being murdered


this is how the walls

are squeezing, tightly

rejecting, a room of

one breath, consider

me an illness that is

inconsiderate


appalling with it’s

shoreline, where

voices should have

been, skulls only


on gape, on fading


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