Kenneth, loves satire and writings to spotlight others, but he also has an "addiction" so to speak, to dramatic and abstract/prose poetry.
I sit here on splintered table . . .gazing halfway upward toward the love that I had, then lost in a mere 58 seconds, or less than a rusty minute. She was cold, yes, you know it. No one was colder besides beer in the summer, than she was, but for almost a minute, I was in my grave and never realized how the icy dirt can puncture both man and spirit by one lofty girl with lofty eyes.
I looked to the right, but only found a gang of ex-husbands, some in their bravado of 20, and one or two who had seen their better days in the matrimony game. A pitiful shame. The girls these guys picked up in seedy bars, always lied about their names. The elderly divorcees, not the hot bar room girls. I have often lusted after those angels in the dark when I was at the reproductive age of 20.
It took a long time, lotta bumps, beaten rumps, and scars that houseflies can live inside, but no more. I mean no more cheap dives, nasty bedroom lies with a girl who tells such a pretty lie about not knowing many men in the scriptural way of sex. I could see through them many times, and many times I lied about seeing through them.
There's no music left in my loving tongue, just unanswered questions to a pair of deaf ears that I once whispered your name. No more. Just empty heartbeats, and wondering what I will meet when the darkness invades the mall. I wonder. Well I don't have to worry about having money to buy girls pretty things, nor will I feel like a lover over night. I think sometimes that I was really a hound dog in a few other lives because of my sides being kicked, and kicked, so liberally . . . .but here I am. I lay down and took it.
Took it. Yeah. What a strong male I am. I cannot even finish my drink. No worries. The faceless people passing me and this splintered table will never see me, for they never did. Oh, how I wish that I could sit and talk a few days with Vincent van Gogh, but he would leave a trail of empty wine bottles.
Who is able to measure the moment that I had? Huh? What, no answers? I see. Just a crowd of silent onlookers who love to see broken lovers like me sent to the ground. Well if that be the case, fine. As far as I know, I'm still here. I'm still breathing. And I'm still in love with the woman of women whom has just vanished all at once. You can't get this painful--not even in a seedy motel room somewhere in a forgotten place in New York City, where the room a man is in gives an awful stench of nicotine and bad whiskey. To make matters worse, his "love" at least for the night, leaves him like a phantom in the early morning and didn't bother to leave him a note.
But I'm still here. I'm still alive. And I will always be in love with the woman of women. Nothing for me to look forward to except my last breath.
I cannot wat.
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