04-27-2014, 12:14 PM
Wrestling with Regret
fim 4/26/14
A sullenness stealthily consumed the muse
that responded to Milo's poetic prompts.
Into the maelstrom masked by the topic
my whimsical inspiration was dumped,
swallowed by the requirement of day 17
to ply unpleasantness beyond the dam,
contemplate that which you have tried to forget
to articulate a regret as best one can.
Dusty, dark and disturbing memories
something precious lost and never regained,
debilitating emotions that eviscerate one’s being
that only time had been able to contain
now unleashed to again ravage one’s psyche
to punish though the debt more than paid
ahh, yes, the choice morsel, a repulsive regret
on which the foundation can be laid
to craft a poem that would command interest
fascination even, though sordidly macabre
yes, artistically delve into depravity
describe the solution to the problem I solved.
The Contents of the Trashcan Beside the Sink
fim 4/27/14
In the bottom of the trashcan beside the sink
was a quarter-sized chunk of flesh.
I only glanced at it for a moment
the bathroom was quite a mess.
Bright blood drenched my right arm,
before trickling from each finger to the floor
I had to focus on abating its release
dizziness warned me I couldn’t lose much more
and still maintain the consciousness I needed
to ensure I didn’t bleed out
apply alcohol to prevent an infection
and do it quietly, without a shout.
I learned something that I hadn’t considered
before using a razor to cut out the tattoo
I never considered flesh would shrivel to one side
after cutting it in the shape of a U
I had to stretch my skin taut by holding it in my teeth
so I could make the final rectangular slice
immediately followed by the horizontal cut
that let me remove the mark from my life.
The discarded chunk of me in the puddle of blood
in the otherwise empty trash can
bore the inked-initials of the beguiling temptress
I wore as a boy … but not as a man.
fim 4/26/14
A sullenness stealthily consumed the muse
that responded to Milo's poetic prompts.
Into the maelstrom masked by the topic
my whimsical inspiration was dumped,
swallowed by the requirement of day 17
to ply unpleasantness beyond the dam,
contemplate that which you have tried to forget
to articulate a regret as best one can.
Dusty, dark and disturbing memories
something precious lost and never regained,
debilitating emotions that eviscerate one’s being
that only time had been able to contain
now unleashed to again ravage one’s psyche
to punish though the debt more than paid
ahh, yes, the choice morsel, a repulsive regret
on which the foundation can be laid
to craft a poem that would command interest
fascination even, though sordidly macabre
yes, artistically delve into depravity
describe the solution to the problem I solved.
The Contents of the Trashcan Beside the Sink
fim 4/27/14
In the bottom of the trashcan beside the sink
was a quarter-sized chunk of flesh.
I only glanced at it for a moment
the bathroom was quite a mess.
Bright blood drenched my right arm,
before trickling from each finger to the floor
I had to focus on abating its release
dizziness warned me I couldn’t lose much more
and still maintain the consciousness I needed
to ensure I didn’t bleed out
apply alcohol to prevent an infection
and do it quietly, without a shout.
I learned something that I hadn’t considered
before using a razor to cut out the tattoo
I never considered flesh would shrivel to one side
after cutting it in the shape of a U
I had to stretch my skin taut by holding it in my teeth
so I could make the final rectangular slice
immediately followed by the horizontal cut
that let me remove the mark from my life.
The discarded chunk of me in the puddle of blood
in the otherwise empty trash can
bore the inked-initials of the beguiling temptress
I wore as a boy … but not as a man.