UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY
Long night, a slave of fantasy, oozing the poison out, a moist doll
Insubstantial in everything but the hard-on,
The last thing, it seems, worth living for
One last shudder from the victim of his own excess
One last spurt, if there is anything left
The last juice from a spent soul.
In his disappointment with himself
It all comes down to this solitary act
An almost violent thrusting at what his mind conjures.
Satisfaction in having brought something off that day.
Now he doesn't bother asking why
With the only answer being a tired smile,
Finally resigned in his sickness, seeing himself
Oozing into a puddle, a last metamorphosis
Until he is a man no more, the essential substance lost,
Bled out over the sad years, while on the fast road to decay.
Long sleepless nights, the racing pulse, the tormented nerves,
His mind an ongoing movie of delirium
But not the stuff of inspiration,
The symbol of the mess his mind is in
Washed up on the dry shores of meaninglessness.
Meetings, and Beyond
He pointed above him, with a knowing smile.
My interest dissolved with the Man Upstairs,
Might as well bounce off the walls
Or beg for the latest in chemicals.
That finger pointed beyond us, up there,
Though the next drink might hold heaven or hell
Depending upon the blood that day.
I heard them thank the Lord, the program,
While knowing, of course, I was alone.
In crowded rooms I struggled with myself
My nerves, sweating disenchantment
With enthusiastic references
To the Big Book, the Good Book,
The last resort reliance on prayer.
I had no words for any of us
When it came right down to it,
Despite temporary medicinal aid,
No hope, as the clock, steadier than any of us,
Ticked away our hand holding session,
The speaker becoming appropriately emotional.
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