How could I let myself get like this? The horror!

No love and the dead are attracted to death! No love. No friends. Heart like a wing refuses to beat. Sparrow eyes, grounded, afraid, dying, yet already dead.

Each and every life so isolated. Words just cannot bridge islands of hell. Cannot purr softly enough. Cannot scream venom and frustration. Cannot murmur indifference and apathy. Useless words. Pain absolutely. Totally. Is unsharable. Silly poet. You are already nine-tenths dead.

Celebrate. This birthday. This final beginning. An oscilloscope quiet. Purpose defused. Joy gets the finger.

Sorrow… heh… my bare behind. And Love… Ah… Love… the great promise, the phallic con-job, the vaginal sweep… Shall I just say, both rot when shown God’s volcanic disruption, Satan’s poetic promise. Is this nonsense, or am I mad?

©Greg Sheppard