Wednesday, January 9, 2008

The Emptiness in Me.

I have cried,
you fuckers.

Do you want to know me,
the fucking
writer,
or the man?

You
sterile fucks.

Safe.

In your bubble,
do you want to know
the sordid details?

The times
when
I have
returned
empty handed,

or more to the point:

hands full.

I have cried.
You fuckers.

But far worse...

I have cried,
and not cared.

About you.

And that you have
cried too.

The Honesty
in Me,
is the emptiness in me.

I didn't care,
that you wept.

I mean I did,
but...

When you cried,
I grew scared.

When you cried,
my eyes
left your shoulder
and searched the wall
behind you
for interesting patterns,

hey,
it looks like Jesus,

cunt.

The Devil,
Death,
and her,
sit around the fire
listening to me speak.

And even The Devil
is lost for words.

As I,

Man,

tell them for fucking once

exactly how black,

black can be.

4 comments:

  1. I'm pretty sure this could all be code for puffy baby bunny tails and cherry red lolipops, but on the off chance I'm wrong-- fucking hell-- you curate an incredible "museum of fears," sherriff.

    xx

    ReplyDelete
  2. you don't have a monopoly on pain. sterile fucks have all suffered. you are making your own bubble. man and writer are same.

    buck the fuck up!!

    ps i like what you do. whatever it is.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Oh pumpkin-knees. I am not in pain. I am happy as larry and parma filled. However I am writing a story on here from now on. No more personal reflections. It is a story. That is all.

    Woo!

    ReplyDelete
  4. heh, pumpkin-knees. i gotta hand it to you.

    [looks dazed]

    ok, see you.

    ReplyDelete