Poetic Interlude X

I haven’t been doing so well this week, Gentle Reader. For the last two I’ve been going strong: productive, cheerful, alive. The last few nights have been spent fending off the inevitable descent as long as possible. It’s never possible for long. In that vein, mes chers, some rather drear poetry today.

Self-Portrait

He wants so much to be happy,
but he doesn’t know how, anymore,
Since he sundered his soul that grey evening,
And showed his young husband the door.
He’s a reprehensible reprobate;
A dandy, long doomed to death
(From the constant exposure to brandy
That the family long smelled on his breath).

He wants so much to be finished,
His shell of a soul full of rot –
(When inclined, a bit of a cynic)
A silk-clad champagne-swilling sot.
The ghosts of his relatives haunt him;
He believes that his god is the wind,
And that no one could possibly want him,
That pleasure itself is a sin.

Evening

In rapt contemplation of femoral arteries,
I lay, sprawling over the bed.
The human condition, in ever-vast quantity
O’erwhelms what is left of my head.
All that I know is a brilliant, bright second
Would turn my skin wonderf’lly red.

It isn’t my passion, depression, or longing,
Events haven’t left me this way.
There’s no explanation for why the heart beats,
Or why the hair slowly turns grey.
Formless and empty, I still resist movement:
I read one more line by Millay.

The subway-map tracery of veins, and of arteries,
Could carry me elsewhere tonight.
All it would take is a glint and a twitch,
Then the stagehands diminish the light.
The knife’s over there, and I can’t seem to move,
But steel’s never shone quite as bright
As the steel is gleaming tonight.

 

©2013 by Tyler J. Yoder. All rights reserved

 

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About Ty DeLyte

Madame DeLyte has suffered a grave disappointment - YET AGAIN - and still believes that freedom, beauty, and truth are what's valuable, rather than vulgar cash. He'd add love to that list - but, well, what can he say about love?
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