Friday, March 29, 2013

lost painting, 1949


like small pieces of paper left in
the pouring rain, like words i love you
written on each one

the flood and then
the flood receding

destruction and the
thick stench of decay

the dull grey weight of hopelessness

all of your life dragged out to the curb
to be picked through by the
dirtbags, the looters, the men w/ their
heads of carrion birds
money in the pockets of
every politician
teenage sons and daughters
lining up to be fucked or
tied down to be raped

it’s a war, of course, and to pray for
one soldier’s survival is to
pray for the death of another

it’s a house on the eastern edge of
town where you live with your
ghosts and your fear of the future

no one meets you at the door after
work, no one kisses you goodnight,
no one offers to die for your sins

no one rushes into the room just as
you prepare to slash your wrists

no one calls you a coward when
you sit there doing nothing

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