Friday, March 25, 2011

Bad Poetry Triple Play Day

I continue to crash around in the
Dark. Then denial is bathed in blinding
Light. It’s too late for riches. Too late for
Love. Nothing will take the disease from my
Head. Demographics kill the future of
Words. Life is “no” and “no” and “no” for old
Women. But still we rise, as Maya’s poetry
Says. I can read of romance, war and carnal
Lust. Perhaps write a bit from memory’s
Sighs. The transition from young to old is
Hard. I can’t go on. I must go on, says
Beckett. I do.  I will. I must. I can.

Fantasy thrives on the myth of control.
Reality has few happy endings.
Fantasy has no room for the real soul.
Reality must have compromise.
Fantasy dies in reality’s hole.
When the new wears off and life slithers in.

Truth, where is thy sting?
Hit me, I can take it.

Seriously, Man,
Shark has to move or die.

And unless it bends
The very fate of mankind

It doesn’t matter.
Even Shakespeare died one day.

Julius Caesar
Bit it one Ides of March.

Maybe I’m too nice
And you think I’m crystal.

Maybe I’m too tough
And you think I’m hard steel.

I don’t do revenge
And I go when I’m told.

Course, the worst thing is
If you don’t care at all.

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