the requiem of this man's spirit

 

At night I hear the taunting, haunting

voices shouting in my sleep.

I am atrophying, paralyzed.

I think of the inquiring Hamlet,

the misanthropic Steppenwolf,

and my own weary father,

a self-described ne’er do well

who painted parking spaces for a living and

was the only registered socialist in town.

 

These daring men of failure shared the

onerous responsibility of having to

reconcile their own morbid sensitivities and

profound self-contempt with a world that

eschews such masculine displays of dis-ease.

 

I, too live the double life of

Performer and Critic;

too involved with my own ego,

unable to synthesize my unconscious with

my conscious.

 

I act with arrogance and pride as I live

among the people,

am tempted by desires of the flesh,

imbibe a variety of spirits,

indulge in richly-tasting foods,

practice vanity, haste, impatience, and excess

and hold any man who possesses less than I in

contempt and reproach him for committing

the sin of sloth.

 

Reviews

[Mari Chubinidze]

It's a very deep and interesting poem, strong both structurally and narratively!

[Philip Gaber]

Thank you, Mari!