I have, in several instances, been forgetful.
Autumn’s night air whips through my window and I turn,
In a way I once memorized,
To my left
Here I curl, and shift
And stare at things that I can touch
Almost like a motherless child; sick, sad, and weeping
Arms reaching
Toward soft, stuffed somethings with coiled smiles and doe-eyes.

That stupidly wonderful rain splatters
And splashes across the night
And into the day
And I irritate myself with pitiful musings
Like a poem, or intent to cry.

Misogynistic Bastard

you
masochistic caterpillar
with constant mother memories
whittle little women in words
and semi-smiles
As if you breathed the life from lines
Or scrapes
Or pasts or thick cores of pure human value stuffed into singular gestures and spread so evenly between my eyes and toes and legs
A crystal hangs
And bends the rays across
Distorted saturations. One, two, three, four lashings for smiling brightly, five, six separate humiliations for watching the sun, seven, eight minutes of nothing for nothing, I’ll hang myself when it is done, when I am scrubbed from your eyes and they are kept clean and dry of me.
Outside a window blue figures swing and lament.
This is my agony,
This is my existential despair.
Call your dogs off, you misogynistic bastard.
I want to go home.