Civil War

A pedestrian sign's yellow lights flash
incessantly, inexhaustably, insistently:

"She loves you-- she doesn't love you."

And far down, two stoplights,
And the blinkers on a van:

"She loves you-- she doesn't love you."

all the while, the piss-yellow gibbous moon,
playing peek-a-boo in pea soup clouds,
hanging like a half-squeezed lemon slice,
like the naughty below, playing nice,
sinks in a dozen different tunes,
and the dancing brides singing in their rooms,
echoing off the concrete cliffs,
and the agreeable smile and civil laughs,
among the clinking of cups and crystal carafes,
and the crashing of heaven and a social ladder,
assailing my ears with no great matter:

"She loves you-- she doesn't love you;"

I'm tormented by that stop light far below,
taunted by the lovers loving long and slow;
I flee the tormenting blinking of the van,
and on the monumental steps, a man:

"She loves you-- she doesn't love you!"

And all those carafes swish filthy swill,
in all this turmoil the night is still...
And I've only the comfort of a thin veneer
of cool confidence and that distant sneer
for all this wrtched, putrid filth,
for all these people and all their ilk,
for me and you, and the rest of us too,
for the warring factions in my heart,
for the indecision that tears me apart:

"She loves me-- She loves me not!"

Flashing in my eyelids when I close my eyes,
the moon is melting in the soupy sky,
like the shrinking ice in a pot of tea,
like the heart of stone inside of me,
like a future corpse's civil smile
"Can't you see, it's a Friday night,"
telling me that I've lost my sight
when I lack the civil sense to hide
when all this sickness roils outside;

And it isn't just these blinded eyes,
it's not the rage of the taunting sky,
or just the corpse's melting smile,
I could live with the naïve and infantile
dancing brides, and the singing of songs,
I could deal with all these wrongs!
It isn't just the scent of her scented skin
sticking to the walls saying "You just can't win!"
It's the rage of this internal war
that incessantly regales me with all this horror

of "She loves me, loves me not!"

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poem written by JASON PAUL FOX.
You MUST credit my authorship when reproducing this poem in any way!
Creative Commons License
Violators are prosecuted, no joke!
I'm living off the generosity of plagiarists now!
(It's OK to give my poem to friends or people at school, if you credit me and don't make money off it)

copyright 2007 Jason Paul Fox