Psyche rolls like the dying tips of waves
under under
subsumed into the larger sea of indistinguishable nothings
the blind and muddy ether of sickened, ugly thought

Many dreams of late, many painted extraordinary dreams
pulling thoughts toward deadened pasts
the subconscious creaks, laughing boldly- angrily,
at residues of feeling-the kind only left in the brains of
weak people

Again, the light creeps in between blinds
beckoning the day
long, plank-teeth echoing
that there is a happy planet outside
a happy, lively planet

The walls of the mind are thick with coagulated stagnation
heavy and isolated, are the repressed desires
heavy and isolated,

Gnawing at the air
bold movement, effort
shaking as if shackled
arguing with no-one

Ah, just once, what she would give,
to be rid of this inner mischief
just once
what she would give,
to sleep

and the sadness creeps in
as sadness does
with foreboding feeling
like distant rumblings of thunder
on the horizon

and the sadness creeps in
surrounding its victim
as sadness does
like silent wolves
round complicit prey

and the sadness creeps in
like an unexpected breeze
warning of change's arrival
as sadness does
with an immediate flush

and the sadness creeps in
like the boldness of flu
swallowing the body in feeling
inescapable, tense and dark
as sadness does

Reading Bukowski
Never read him before
or have I
Maybe it didn't resonate
in memory
because it wasn't important
then
life was important
then
meaningless gestures were
important
smiling, preening, outward movement
was important
then
so his words didn't scratch
their nails down
the chalkboard
like they have
today
as the sun
betrays
my mood
and i hope
to god
that someday
i am
strong enough,
selfish enough
to rid myself of
this