Dead Poetry

Insomnia

Feet ankle deep in clothes and snot
and pubic hair
from bedroom to computer
I lie
because I lie but cannot sleep
as darkess sweeps the world
and I wonder once again
who I am,
because I have eyes but cannot look.

Wife and children
asleep
and cats clinking in the kitchen
I pour a bourbon, Jim Beam, straight
only because it has style
and I like the smell
wakes me as it pulls me to sleep
why do the poets love death?
nobody knows me.

It used to be nymphs romping
in the fields and rhyming couplets.
But the poets are all dead now
– Walt Disney and Whitman saw to that. –
Now drunks mock me from street corners
in a language I can’t understand
because I am the outsider here
and they are the same bullies that
called me “Retarded” when I was six
and self hate and fear
and insomnia and bourbon burning
my lips and stomache
how
can we live like this?

how the hell does a person survive on hate and fear
and self doubt
my bourbon sits in the glass finest carved chrystal
we have
only the best for our dissipation
as Lynyrd SkyNyrd squeezes it all out of my head

I should stop crying and go back to bed

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