Who woulda thought the half-life
jive-life single-live would be this
and more. Not what it’s cracked up to be
The door knocking the phone ringing
with insistent visitors who want to
comfort and the console the half dead you,
the half-dead me, and if you’re not dead
yet well, here’s a lover to
suck your life-force, your elan-vital,
your light, your cosmic and not so cosmic
energy, your Virgo purity and
impurity. To take it all and run
while you lie on the bed or sit
at the desk half-stunned
always knowing that it would come to this
This end, where you are now.
Your only friend a small white pill
that promises relief in twenty minutes
from This Domestic Bliss. You’re a writer,
a virgin, a whore, a sinner, not a saint
and though you’ve tried to
walk the road and head toward the
Light you find yourself Always,
But Always, shrouded in darkness.
A hairshirt, a cloak you
want to throw off.
You: eyes like mirrors, and see-through
skin; a small fragile thing that breaks
with every break of day.
thanks for listening | these are part of a selection of poems called "cries from a socialist land."
sadi ranson-polizzotti (for video of these, click this link and select Video and Film