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,

though somewhere

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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