Posts Tagged Hate
My Mother seeped in, riding on
blue cardboard. She’s always there,
creeping inside of those odd parts
of the mind with defective connections
that make me run wild while walking
slowly, looking like death, and then I hate
all that I see, and I battle myself by hating
my wiring, but I want manners, things that don’t
interfere with the beauty of the world,
knowing that I am fully responsible for all
of the ugliness in the world and it is
everywhere, turning my stomach and
the blue cardboard is wrapping around
me and turning me into disgustingly
used paper towels, and I didn’t invite
my Mother today, but she’s always
here instead of resting in her urn.
I sit here thinking, supposed to be working,
looking like working, but thinking,
closed in by windows with metal frames
and a wooden door with twelve window panes
of twelve by twelve, shrinking from the searing
orange and black and wicked violet of all of the people
who are buzzing all around for the ice cream social,
fully understanding that one of my sidebar sicknesses
is fear of social situations, boiling in my insanity,
shrinking from my nothingness, understanding
that when there is no escape, when the fire door is blocked,
I am as dead as the tan brick on the face of the building
across the street, which is foreboding in its effort
to keep me from running off the rails and crashing my train
into a grandmother’s little yellow house with bright yellow shutters.
When accused of having a phobia, I feel one point four
feet tall. It’s okay for other people to have phobias
but I am astonished at how stupid I could be
to have a phobia.
Normies don’t have phobias.
Normies always feel good
I work hard
to feel good
but I am
if I will recognize it
if it ever comes to me in my eternal hell.
The daggers of irony, of my Catch-22, knowing that I boil
in my self-hatred because I am too scared to go be with
the people, and at the same time, I am fearful to go be
with the people because I boil in my self-hatred and the
striking hammer-blows of knowing I can never be good enough.
I would ask: What if
no one likes it?
I was innocent. Younger,
I Thought the answer:
I take it personally.
I need approval,
and this drives me
all of the parts
of my constitution.
I hate my need
more than I hate
all of my other needs.
I suck, and back to the question,
the truth is
no one likes it
all the time. With approval,
I suck but I grab thin threads,
silver slivers of fishing line
gently iced with hope.
I want medicine
to fill my bottomless craving
but they don’t make it,
so I suck,
“I suck” rolls around
carves up my lungs,
makes my face hurt
of poisonous sweat
telling me I don’t belong. I wish
that someone liked it.
I dream that someone
liked me. My dreams
Please take my need
for approval far away
where hawks eat mice
in the afternoon sun,
and leave me in the dumpster.
I will love you
On a stack of wicked sticks,
you are the dead, red elephant.
Judgment rains down
in jars of purple feathers.
If we cared for you, we’d listen.
But we know the hollowness
of inhuman cracked shells,
so we watch you pass
on your way to the soupy tan drain
that feeds other devils like you.
Fuck all them.
Get on your white horse.
Skies are water here.
Tarry on sacred blooms.
Geometry strives to gash the malice of those who despise me.
But the perpetrators are soupy fogs sunk in crevices of soft tissues.
Showers of the irradiated shampoos won’t rid the tenement of enmity.
Clamorous music at destructive volumes does not vex their black scorn.
Closets, dead, gloomy, sweltry and burnt orange do not allow for burials.
It is said that prayer works on the fallen whether or not you believe it.
Stick me dead.
stick me dead.
You say whoops.
A target of the most severe,
alone in my disease is dangerous.
Hermits do not get well,
but the world demands that I become the recluse.
Sappy snow queens with brown terror,
shatter eyes and ruin gut.
Nice would be to reverse all the irremediable ruin,
but even so, I’m never well enough.
Could someone save me,
allow me to become the good being
I’m expected to be?
So natural for me to detest myself,
when others hate me, it is hard enhancement.
My personal qualities are abhorrent.
How do you run from fear
being full of fear? Shields don’t work –
Loaded women dissolve my armaments.
It is all so rotten under my covers.
How might I be revised?
Not by attacks from the scum and the good -
There is no center.
Who is it who beats a dog?
My temper becomes insane rage.
Tender care with my loving Gracie,
reach gently when petting,
else she ducks as if from a descending bomb.
Who is it who shatters these loving beings?
For Gracie it was long, long ago.
Now she is old and wise,
but violence of puppy days is stuck on her.
Who is it who beats angels?
I hold my Gracie and she loves me deeply.
She has no clue about my load of defects.
She knows I would never hit.
She knows I love her carefully.
If I were the creator,
I would allow dogs to destroy
those who beat dogs,
but then the dogs would not be dogs.
Who is it who is so depraved?
Give me all the beaten dogs,
and let me love them now,
never to allow a beating again.
“You’re not the same Carl I married.”
I sit there longing to meet this guy
who was apparently a decent guy.
Where did he go?
I don’t miss the drunk.
When the drunk vacated,
I suddenly had an open road.
I cannot go back to that hell.
Where is the good part?
Who is this asshole, this gentleman
who has left town?
I want to be good for everyone,
but Carl is gone into a cyclone.
Her question deserving a robust no:
“Am I supposed to put up with this
for the rest of my life?”
Her question deserving a dopey look:
“When will you get better?”
I feel stupid about this.