I am as brittle as a pane of glass
shuffling down the same street
creaking like a scarecrow come alive
as I stoop to scoop up the stink
my dog left me. He pulls
on the lead; it is difficult
to tie the bag, the wind whispers
in my ear suggestively.
One whiff of bad news, or good
and my little life is liable
to explode at a moment’s notice.
is which way;
or the stage?
or the knife?
or the pipe?
There is a broken bootlace in the bush,
a sandwich wrapper, a soda can, the seals
are covered in oil again;
why does nobody seem to care?
If you want to hear truth
you have to start asking some ugly
questions. If you want to feel beautiful
you have to start spreading some dirty lies.
My parents are growing tired
of my riddles. I wonder if they wish
they’d raised a good, honest consumer,
a career man who could meet anybody’s eye?
The paths offered by society
seem easier to follow
when they’re set in cement.
Weary-headed parents (loyal, limited readership)
worry not, this is not a preface
to a twenty volume suicide
On the contrary, was anybody ever born
without feeling a little pain?