Sunday, 24 May 2020

call me rough life

call me rough life

call me rough life
why do you not call me to play the fool
the arrogant roughneck drinking fool
that wrote for her - you know - 
those lurid nights of windowed cities
and bars and wet streets and brawls in
in stairwells of brevity kisses
and traffic hisses away down town
and frowns and downs and downs
to wet knee wet with tears raining down with
your mascara and bruised love if
love it be for me and my fallandering
why don’t you rough me up and
leave me with enough smoke-stained angst
to write the brutal lines that all the great 
do-no-good poets clawed 
upon the page’s confessions of regret 
and fabled acerbic pounding of
relationships gone on far far too long past
their ability to even breathe an emotion

why this easy ambiance this ease of life
that pours not cider vinegar but maple syrup
that has not one word to cut the days of
blank pages and no looks that could kill
in red ink the slammed book of poems
dedicated in hatred to all whose meritocracy 
i defied to entertain just my egotistical nonchalance  
now that i bare write nothing nothing at all for
having not died in that life i lay down nothing 

is it too late these aged years to ride
the bronco stallion of desire unbridled
and fly at last to the wild side of life
rattling penniless unrepentant galavanting
nailing dirty words smearing fetid words
bleeding grimy words spitting oathy words
leaving no stone of life unturned before
the days run down

is it too late
am i run to time run done
it is over mun 
it is isn’t it 
and was it not i 
who left it
all undone

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