Monday 7/28/2008 12:15:00 AM

There is nothing else like. The rabbit in the noose. The chair not toppling. Old friends. And new ones. Debating whether I should live. There is no alone quite so stringent as that of not wanting to be.

I got over it.

Pull on that mask. So they won't know you're watching them.

Gather the words. Festering manipulations that fail to infect. I'm too diseased to notice the sickness suggested. Tell them that you love them with a roar. And that you won't with a whisper. Tell them anything they want to hear. They're not listening anymore.

The bad men come dressed like saints. White sleeves and black bow ties. Because they never soil themselves with the misfortunes of others. Good men smell of piss. Because they reach down to pull others from it.

Lies. The sedative. That shuts up all missing limbs. I don't need to walk away. It's just as profound, if not more so, to crawl. But I think you're wrong. It's not hard at all to make friends.

The difficulty lies in keeping them.

My flaw is that I need them to love me.

Flesh like lawyers. Still blaming the victim.

The Mad Dog said...

AP...such beauty from the horror...nicely done. Here's one of mine:

this is a an exercise in perpetuity,
a dance in the never-ending dark,
this is a walk in a leviathan of
deprecation -- this constant wasting
of consciousness. yet there is
nothing else to do. if there were
a god...It would be Death -- pray to It
for your deliverance from this.
it's like congealed blood...a blighted,
torpid metaphor caught between
zenith and nadir -- inescapable.

-D.C. Massey (The Mad Celt)
"Musings of a Mad Celt"
This work by Dale C. Massey is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

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