Another Nor’easter

Tired of writing and thinking

about nothingness.

So writing instead on nothing.

Sadness is looking back.

In that time,

emptiness. Reality not represented

because of abstract lenses.

Stuck, the same thing every day.

Thoreau and Emerson- beyond understanding,

transcendentalism is not for the hungry.

The dog is getting old, he is loved.

Mother will never stop worrying.

In a costume against better judgment.

Not having much longer, never having much longer.

Not having much worth saying.

All too often everything is unbearable.

And that is almost a lie, since everything continues.

Not apt for this. Circle, self-referring solo, meditating

on another illusion

how this has gone on for too long.

No more poetry: rotten fruit for worthless humans.

Waiting to get it all over with. Tired of writing about the self,

it is due to a lack of creativity.

Once more unto the blackness friends, dull acquaintances.

Universal pain in the ribs, glorious unglory.

Uneverything and wiseness down the drain. Forget these lacerations

memorize each breath. All drivel, fucking worthless words.

Cyclical redundancy inhabiting each thought.

Cramping limbs, giving comfort when there is nothing else.

Only hallucinating the intangible

lights, shadows, redness. Not like there are a bunch of crab apparitions

appearing randomly. Lacan would not alleviate any of it.

Ringing inscribed in impermanent stone.

Stinging words in deep ironically,

permanent things on a temporary body. Death does not do us part.

Nothing leaves this physical encasement. Iron wires wrapped around flesh.

Exposed to alienation, there is barely a shell left.

Every day seems like the last until it all gets boring.

Split between mediocrity and familiarity. Only a piece, purple,

royalty or almighty? I wrote that I was done with poetry on more than one occasion

attention grabbing advertisement specializing in arbitrariness.

Smells like bleach, I’d like to think someone got stabbed here last night.

Well, I don’t like it, I just thought of it, perhaps I sub-consciously like to think of such things.

I’d like to get stabbed one of these days.

I think of it often.