Shallow

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Photo credit: Javier

Time trickles away,

Moments merely whispers.

Weeks turn to months and suddenly I forget

What it’s like to be human.

 

I no longer recall the taste of her flesh.

The look on her face

When I told her she wasn’t the one

Is as familiar to me as a stopwatch is to a sequoia.

 

But not a second goes by

In this wretched existence

That I don’t remember

The sound of her shovel packing my grave.

Dinner for One

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It didn’t take a rocket scientist to conclude that

She was going to be alone the rest of her life.

Women just stopped approaching her.

It’s not you, it’s me.

 

Deep within a sugar maple forest without a spigot,

She felt worthless.

Her hair was too thin;

She swore she’s not pregnant.

 

At a firm 24, everybody she went to school with were

Either married or having children, while she sat

Drenched in barbeque tears, a book in hand as the

Evening news chirped on a greasy laptop screen.

 

Everybody else was too busy to reply to her emails;

The desperate phone calls and texts weren’t enough.

Preoccupied with mediocre sex and prescription drugs,

They all frowned behind immaculate porcelain masks.

 

A peek within the pink dollhouse would show a different story.

Their husbands were cheating.

And might as well kiss that promotion goodbye, for

The boss was requesting a naughty tit-for-tat.

 

It was a cruel daydream,

A cookie-cutter life of torpedoed self-worth.

Just wade through mounds of pity and shit,

Surely there was a life in there somewhere.

 

It didn’t take her long to realize that

Being lonely was not as grim as it seemed.

So she finished her book and

Smiled before falling back to sleep.

 

Forever alone.

 

 

 

 

 

Featured image was found here.

Crack the Cord and Drown the Pups in Compassionate Carbonation

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Stony charlatans stir indolent hypocrisy in the world,

Shredding the woolly cardigan of civility just for show.

They cast their curses with gummy fingers, and

Civilization follows suit, lambs to slaughter.

 

Bidding inflated allegiance to the corrupted head,

The workers erect a monument of flashy emerald

As green as their impious souls.

 

The sourdough caterpillars sleep each night

In a corpulent bed of cocaine fruitcake,

Awaiting the hornet’s next decree.

 

Safe within their soggy gingerbread houses,

They know pretentious flattery is all that’s saving them

From a trip to the bloodstained altar.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Featured image was found here.

Arachnid

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There were times he would just sit at the park in his Mustang and watch the little butterflies dance and play. Then when he felt an uncomfortable rise in his jeans, he’d drive away.

He would stick the pin through those he caught, immortalizing their innocence and youth. And they would just sit there, their graceful energy frozen, with all the others. But unlike many of the caterpillars in the park, he could play with his butterflies.

Sometimes, he would stumble upon a wounded moth, wings tattered, covered in ants, and he would sit and watch. He watched as the ants nipped at the writhing thing until it gave up at last. The moths, they spat their sinister accusations, befouling his collection with their hideous disfigurement. So he watched their torment with delight.

While others spoke with malice about his art, he was but a spider hard at work. Every night he spun his web – an intricate fortification of contemplation and passion – only to have it smashed under their big feet.

With his freedom, dignity – everything – to lose, the spider would wait in the crevasse with the other spiders. Next time he was going to pin the most beautiful one in the park, he was sure of it.

 

 

Featured image is from David Lee on Flickr.

Kingdom Come

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“It’s time,” announced the pendulum,

Tightening a tattered life vest.

Its twisted fingers tasted silken entrails.

 

From the void in the sky, an infernal howl

Resounded within the hallowed gut.

Caustic waves flowed from the chasm in erratic belches.

Oil replaced deep oceans,

Great mountains reduced to black chalk.

Conflagrations devoured tranquility.

 

The skeptic’s nightmare.