digestion

Even breathing will become a sellable commodity soon.
I’ve sat stagnant for far too long,
my lungs have forgotten how to expand,
my heart, how to beat.

My hips complain of rust,
and my back is wailing like the bow of a ship.
It’s time to grow back out of infancy,
I’m happy to crawl before I sprint again.

– morning run reflections

-W.E.

psychologists

It’s business as usual,
as they set their fangs on you,
your cure,
is in your back pocket,
at the bottom of your hand bag.

Your healing, won’t ever come,
but they will manage your numbness,
for a fee,
always a fee.

Show me a psychologist with battered bones,
show me one with a fractured skull,
perhaps lacerations from rape,
with a man’s skin under her nails.

Show me a psychologist,
that hates themselves,
that is afraid to unleash their voice on the world,
because they think it’s too loud,
not loud enough,
too proud,
not proud enough.

Show me a psychologist,
who has used their bare hands to hurt someone,
to avoid hurting themselves,
and then those same hands hurt themselves,
to avoid hurting others……

…..then perhaps,
I will buy into this world of fanciful gasbaggers,
of Pavlov trained dogs of pharmacologists,
slaves of politicians,
sluts and gigolos of share holders.

W.E.

settling the score


There’s scores yet to settle with myself,
for now, there’s another breath,
another heave,
another mouth to feed,
and dusty, they’ll wait patiently,
amongst collections of poetry,
preferably,
on the highest shelf.

How to settle a score with yourself;
give it what it needs,
then demand of it what you need.

I haven’t the time to deal with myself,
and I haven’t found a person,
save for my teacher who is thousands of miles away,
to have enough to offer me,
both in sincerity,
and in complexity,
but in utter ability,
and ironclad conviction,
to show me the miseries,
and realities,
of me.

Alas,
procrastination is a middle man,
a soothing hand,
a woman on demand,
a balm of crux,
if ever there was a dichotomy of reconcile.

It is genderless,
one minute savage,
the next, tender.

How did I arrive,
at loving and hating myself with such fervor?
How did I become stiff,
how did I contour?

The paralysis,
my nemesis,
seems to be all inside of me,
and I won’t let anyone in to see.

W.E.

hear no, see no, feel all

It owns you.

Play pretend until your last breath,
but you’ll forever be it’s slave.

One sin, two sins, three sins four,
soon, you won’t feel,
you’ll just want more.

Five sins, six sins, seven then eight,
try to pay it off,
it will be too late.

Nine sins, ten sins, and on it goes,
before you can pay it off,
you’ll be someone you don’t know.

It bites, it gnaws,
it’s the cracking jaw,
it reminds you with every chew,
of the reality of you.

The bite that can’t be digested,
purity gone,
by your own hand molested.

W.E.

I’m amazed (and laugh inside) when people take the wrong things they do so lightly, not in mock or jeer, but in pity for the ignorance of what they will inevitably be indebted to. That stuff doesn’t just go away. Try as you may to pretend your conscience is switched off and it doesn’t bother you, deep within, it haunts and chips away at you until it manifests in other ailments.

Sometimes it takes time, but it lurks and waits for the opportune moment to collect and when it comes knocking, there’ll be nothing you can do but admit your folly, your arrogance and ignorance.

Sin is glorified, like one can raise their head in pride for the shit they do, for the hurt they cause and parade themselves as being honest, bludgeoning the word, the meaning, bastardising it and uprooting it from it’s intended purpose.
‘At least I’m honest’, they mantra like being filthy, being vile and being loaded with immorality is pardoned by a simple admittance. Shame? What shame? Shame is ridiculed to the derelict corner of uncool. It’s cool to be a piece of shit these days and wear that like a badge of honour.
You may hear no evil, you may see no evil, as you’ve shifted the metrics of measuring evil, but you’ll feel it all, eventually every last bit of it.

W.E.

dear grief – 20

 

You’re an air of musk and liver halves ,
a stench of decompose,
mould stained etchings on epitaphs,
just thorns, with no rose.

Autumn crisp and winds snappy bite,
crows gawk and stare,
grass blades, stones and sunken sites,
they make you self aware.

Feet that echo from earth to ears,
I feel swollen with heat and regret,
flame of guilt and acid tears,
this grief just will not let.

Gnashed cheek sidewall,
chewed lip flesh sprawl,
bloodied nose freefall,
oh grief, I’m in your thrawl.

W.E.