Saturday, August 13, 2016

The Oil.

The oil is past impatience
Tired of my watery inconsistency.

The oil dares me daily, as I turn my back in shame
The oil has a face; stern, strong, arrogant
Frustrated beyond words at these 43 year old tendons
The bones crack, wince, piss themselves

Maybe jaundice yellow is the point I must begin...

The mud in my heart is too blue to know any better.

This wretched inconsistency...
Clumpy, coagulated, stolen potency- stewing
Fresh panels wrapped in plastic
The pine suffocates some 48 hours and counting.

I am not even humbled by what I am doing

I am green, like the mountain after battle-
Not fresh, clean, full of flavor-
Green like the ooze of infection - plodding,
Blood-stained, bloated, rotting.

Why do more words fall in line to define this rancid condition?

Should they not revolt instead and beat heavy
All the apprehension I hug like a child trapped in nightmares?
Fucking morsels of criticism, wedged in too deeply
Pop these fuckers like an unwelcome pustule-

And move on for once- driven.

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