Life

On the shores of the Bay, a man stands, physically exhausted, emotionally dead.

His tired eyes squeeze out the holy water of sorrow, the ultimate damnation of depression, doping diving drowning

the rocky water beneath the cliff calls out to the man, as if preaching to the congregation in his mind, nearly ready to testify.

This man who lives by the book, cries by the book, sleeps by the book, and curses the institution’s name who issued the book

who falls to his knees waiting for a sign from the greater who inhabits the oblivion, living breathing, trying dying.

He listens to the devilled lecturer teaching the biological facts which take away from the psyche, from the being, from the soul,

the man who craves the burning, dry high taste of mother earth’s marijuana, the crisp, drip sip of her partner’s brutish beer.

The legality of youth and suppression of freedom, why have the right to speak if one cannot be heard?

His loving parents watch him leave, lose his faith, and lose his legitimate self, searching for his fathered religion that he is meant to follow.

His Friends, companions, society of peaceful observers, watch wait wish wisdom of the world would wash down the waves of worshipful silence.

Sh, listen, the pounding of the lover’s organ trying to escape, the jumping, and fighting, to escape the jail cell of his ribs

his love is not of her, tis the idea of the perfect companion, the always prepared mistress, a wife, a friend, yet his mid educational institution of immaturity lacks that which he wishes to obtain

for that he prepares his sign of retaliation:

Let the thumb rest a while, the pointer has no need, the pinkie’s just a hindrance, the inverted finger for which billions of vows have been written drawn toward the palm, while the middle gives a fuck you to all humanity.

Fuck you love, the almighty poison which drives men from heavenly ecstasy to hell like misery

fuck you god, the starter of wars, the puppet master of life, and the guiding force behind the world’s pain

fuck you world, the place of piss-drunk prodigies, center stage for the awful ensemble to ruin the only venue available

fuck you self, the pain in my brain, the fucked up person he is, the man’s fucking conscious, fighting to fuck off his thoughts.

There’s no need for the poor feeble man of the ocean to feel this unholy pain, why not the celebratory longing for pussy, rejection of cock, need to fuck, it’s the human experience so why waste it?

Give me some weed, give me some drink, give me some deaf self-righteous and miserable shrink, so I can finally tell my story, don’t judge me, don’t fucking judge me, so here you are.

Read this poem, bleed this poem, feed this poem, need this poem, this poem is not for me for her, for you for he, for his of hers, for dick for cunt, drunk or sober, living or dead, it is for everyone and anyone.

As the man breathes in he steps, breathes out he runs, holds his breath he jumps, a scream of delightful fear and he falls.

GK