Noisy Innards Part 2

 

 

if I were a better facsimile

of the Me I yearn to be,

I suppose

I could fix it.

 

 

I am, after all, the emcee

of this punk rock funeral

procession.

 

 

could easily

dig a deep hole

in the backyard

of a temporal lobe,

and bury these deformed

screams in 6 ft of concrete

peace.

 

 

but, the disease and its symptoms

are just interesting enough

to keep me from dropping this defective

roman candle into a bucket of water

 

 

or

 

 

gasoline.

 

 

look closely, 

the fresher burns are hopes & goals.

the gnarly old horse blanket

of scars is woven from dead bodies

and live regrets;

I'm wrapped in all of the ghostly

almosts that haunt this creepy old

whatever.

 

 

but,

if Mom asks,

I'm fine.

 

 

it's not all torture.

the pain is fairly comforting;

makes me feel more like a warrior

than a dead man;

 

 

justifies the constant

a*s-clownery of falling

and getting back up.

 

 

most importantly,

the noise muffles the laughter

of Judas onlookers

and eclipses the medicine ball

eyes of Münchhausen caretakers.

 

 

confusion coated convenience

will always be the most potent pill in the jar.

Author's Note

the pig looks dead,
but that isn't stopping the monkey
from humping him.
I'm no psychiatrist,
but I think it has something to do with the fact
that the monkey's father never understood his art.

Reviews

[Ed Hart]

i listened closely