Empty rooms, echoing with a laughter that is no longer there.
I sit by candle light,
writing words no one will understand.
Hidden face stare.
My mind as lonely as deepest space.
No Scotty to beam me up.
Even Cyberspace this Night echoes with hollowness...
Faceless folks hiding behind a blue lite screen...
Raped by the rat race.
Flickering light dances off Keat’s chrome,
exhaust in my living room...
Oil on a plywood home...
A ridden friend cools...
Freedoms dream.
Coe plays a soft southern drone,
Eros teases...
I again play the fool...
A prune I resemble,
so many cold showers taken...
Hands hurt, bag beaten,
the Rage satisfied for now...
This night Dylan was read,
a ditty about the dying of the light...
Tis’ April, Caesar must again be
rendered unto. Gold for soul.
The New Religion.
Hate being a pawn.
Again the yawns...
Off to a lonely bed.