Tag: illness

Poem #139

Thank You, I Do Not Remember
Dearest Kay,

What magic did you put into my drinks, when
mixing one part Kraken,
one part butterscotch schnapps, splashed
with cola, two separate glasses of
buttery black spiced rum cocktails, one
a la mode, one
on the rocks?

We have a grinder,
we have both our glass pipes,
and we have a bag of reefer
and we have the end of a joint,

Kay, do you remember reading of the Caterpillar, there was a problem                                 when Alice visited him in Wonder Land, on a whim,
and he was sitting, smoking hookah upon a mushroom,
and neither of them could recite the poem,
“Father William”?

I do not remember
the rerun of Penny Dreadful,
weary in the throes of back trouble,
only I remember the title,

where John Clare, ward and alone, wishes to die,
to rest on the Northampton grass below–
above the cathedral ceiling sky.

And yet, my lover, you, too, were so high
neither to remember how I pry,
nor to remember how you reply
betwixt each hit.

You are forgiven. We went much higher, then,
when we ascended the stairs of the duplex, when
and where I do not discern where you end and I begin.

Victor
Frankenstein
has to exist opposite
The Creator,
as The Adam of his Struggle
is of The Fallen Angel.
I am too presumptuous, when
I assume God must be a man, but never have I held the keys,
and you rebuke, “No. She is a woman.” A woman I long to please.

What would transpire, after
the monster
of Victor
and Vanessa reciting together
a poem of John Clare, does not matter

I am much happier here,
where drink and smoke have led
me lying next you, my dear,
to finally sleep, without my pain and without my head.

Yours Truly,
Andreas

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Poem #138

An Anti-Sonnet for the Koch Brothers

Worried with indenture to Billionaires and their kin,
I hurry to my cola and two shots of rum, when
I embark on an expedition through my head, then,
to work my brain when its vessel is broken.
For right then my premeditations, at a distance, where I sin,
aim at a jealous voyage to your dynasty of Kansas Cooks’ cotton gin,
when my back is broke, with bad disks, which constrict
through the nerves of my spine, and detain the illegals
or eyelids from falling down, and up pupil width, to shift calls,
to look on dread which the good prophets see; save that an addict
with my poetic spirit’s creative vision presents your destruction convict
to my visionless persuasion which like a fear in pleasant morn makes
white days dim and her new face ancient; So, therefore, by nights my body aches
and days I give my madness to you, and for myself, all your thunder shakes.

Poem #132

For all you, ill health in life (revision: set to punk…)

When I wake to the croak of a toad,
what malady should I name you: I’m your roadkill in the road;
sinus pressure tries out for band at my mate’s Brain’s flat;
its hands grip round the sticks at my eardrum;
and how ’bout that, what ’bout that,
there’s not a drop of whiskey for any hard working bum;
indigestion’s team of swimmers do their laps and do their swipes;
how dare they hold relay competitions of freestyle up my bloody pipes;
phlegm from the throat
and fever meet at a pub; they’re the repugnant types;
and if you listen to their shaded stools, masked beneath their gripes,
then you’ll inevitably hear their plot to strangle me;
I’ve learned my lesson from playing against the lottery;
midnight I’m gasping for air;
muscle in tug-a-war
against a cap of my knee;
tendons in my feet I will tear;
disks I destroy in my spine in error
by doldrums of my labor?

I dream of my companion
and I by the television,
and then, I know,
all you, ill health in life,

are worth suffering, in this dying one,
rather than dying alone.

Poem #131

For all you, ill health in life

When I wake to the croak of a toad,
what malady should I name you:
sinus pressure tries out for band at my brain’s flat;
its hands grip round the sticks at my eardrum;
indigestion’s team of swimmers
hold relay competitions of freestyle up my pipes;
phlegm from the throat
and fever meet at a pub
and plot to strangle me;
midnight I’m gasping for air;
muscle in tug-a-war
against a cap of my knee,
tendons in my feet I tear,
disks I destroy in my spine in error
by doldrums of my labor?

I dream of my companion
and I by the television,
and then, I know,
all you, ill health in life,

are worth suffering, in this dying one,
rather than dying alone.

Poem #109

Insomnia…

1 April 2017

A successful sunset: the switches of lights sound
a summer superfluity of cicadas.

The band of a penumbra,
that pushes the curtain aside,
stirs a stygian shade from slumber
into strengthening sight.

His eyes inquire,
Is the interior
illuminated
indigo and ivory
?

Indurate,
toward idleness,
their interrogations
issue forth, irritating
the inconspicuous
image of Arcady,

till Dante is installed
in their intersections
of illustrations

in an impossible injection
to initiate any interesting inversion
of insomnia.

The bed has been the base
of many a manic scenario,
and a likeness of my beauty performing fellatio
does nothing to cure this case.

There is a list of tasks that tease
the weary head: go to the bank,
clean the kitchen sink,
wash the loose laundry,
pay this bill by five,
all so this sensitive skull will live.

The ceiling is confused with the floor
in several indistinct flashes of feeble
flutters from eye lids.