I Have A Strong Sense Of Desperation
[Warning: this poem contains swearing. Enjoy.]
The sun rises.
Cold and windless, the day begins.
There is food, and T.V.
I listen to stories of other people,
their mindlessness, their sorrows,
great inanities and little joys,
how they are freed by work,
the worth of their lives.
Just the sound of it hurts.
There is blood in the sink,
and in the mirror I find
other wounds of time.
Outside, nothing is moving,
someone is burning
something. It is winter all over here.
In a little while, all the hours in a day
have passed unnoticed
and the moon is at home.
Nobody said anything
worth talking about today.
There is food again, and that
sad, embittered taste.
The T.V. says nothing once more,
though a man comes on and tells me
about some useless information
every fifteen minutes.
And then there is the news,
which has told me, now and then,
of a silly man who fucked a pig,
of a lying pig who fucked a country,
of a dead rich man who fucked up girls,
of an arrogant son who fucked up royally.
I have a strong sense of desperation.
Cold and heartless,
this son sets.
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