Abusive Fuck

He’ll always be an abusive fuck;
but you think if you’re
non-combative,
smooth troubled waters,
give him nothing to complain about,
he’ll change,
he’ll see that you love him.

But he doesn’t think the way you do.
He doesn’t think about you at all.
All he thinks about is himself;
how hard it is for him,
how he keeps everything together.

He sees you talking to someone else;
he berates you, scolds you
like a little child who knows no better;
How dare you.

But he chats up all and sundry;
why not?
He couldn’t possibly be anything
other than bordering on the perfect,
could he?

Humiliation,
degradation,
insignificance.
What next?

Oh there is a what next.

A walk into a door,
a tumble,
a ‘silly’ stumble,
‘cos you’re not capable
of functioning without his guidance;
such is the omnipotent,
omniscient,
omnipresence
of this self styled deity
that deigned to honour
you with his presence.

He belittles you?
he’s insecure.
He humiliates you?
he’s afraid of your self confidence.
He beats you?
He’s a coward.

You deserve better.

For The Poetry Pantry #436  . I was thinking about the way my old man, who died recently, treated my mother and us children. It happens everywhere, and it sickens me to see these men abusing good women and children simply because they can.

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Inebriated

Saturday sunshine,
madness on the roads.
Sleepy drunks,
recovering drunks,
drowsy drunks,
weaving this way and that.

Cell phones stuck to earnest ears,
changing lanes
like changing gears…

“Yeah, yeah, you don’t say…”

“Oh shit! I just hit
another car!”

And there you are.
Couldn’t wait,
could you.

For what?
A quickly scribbled shopping list?
An inane call to your buddy?

Every Saturday,
every Sunday;
Monday too.

Still drunk,
still driving…

Are you?

 

I wrote this a few years ago when I was living in Newfoundland.

Writing Sucks

Waiting for inspiration to strike
Requires a lot of patience and immobility
In place of actual work, or so it seems
To me. For
If writing does depend on that flash of genius,
Nothing is happening here. I
Guess it’s more a matter of perspiration that
Success arises from; not the often mis-
Understood flash of brilliance that
Comes upon a person like lightning, but rather the
Knowledge that no work equals no writing equals no
Success. Simple, eh?

Slowly Going Crazy

slowly going crazy
not like a fox
more a box of frogs
bouncing off the walls

sit down
stand up
sit down again
stand up
walk a bit
sit back down

watch TV?
as if the dozens of hours this week
weren’t enough

a movie?
my attention span has shrunk
to that of a goldfish’s memory

read?
three novels in four days
is about as much as I can manage

exercise?
alas not an option
work?
Oh I wish

write?
now there’s an idea

at least my
penthouse eyrie
is cool
literally and figuratively
on the hottest day
of the year

life is good
but I am
slowly going crazy

or am I

mwahahaha…