The Gaslit Poems

Ennui

Poem gas — Sat, 12 Apr 2008 16:06:47 GMT

Ennui

Apathy pains the thoughtful,
Aids the politician,
Cloaks the self-righteous,
Then disregards the position.

Neither concerned with the time,
Nor how long it takes,
He raises the limits
With no regard to the stakes.

He steps harshly without intent,
And loathes without hate;
He creates without purpose,
Then wipes clean his own slate.

Stop

Poem gas — Sat, 12 Apr 2008 15:49:22 GMT

Stop Here, I Want to Get Off

Oh, my God, I think I've crossed it,
that line near which no one should ever go.
If only for a sample of any ordinary day,
but I don't think I can ever move that slow.

Foresighted mirrors etched with thinning faces;
Polished glass, foggy rooms, demons in between.
Plan new destinations but where it always takes us
Is a whole new place that we have already seen.

Things aren't pretty just because of their name.
Some stay to injure another day, some lay down and die.
If I had watched the ferryman before the boat came,
I would never have allowed myself to live this lie.

All along the hallway there are people who know me
But only in so far as they wish they could gain.
They seldom leave me alone, live their life to roam,
And wait to smile while watching me go insane.

Stop, God, please, I need to get off here again,
I need to just end this treacherous game.
I won't live to pass go, won't get out of jail free,
And rolling the dice just no longer feels the same.

Love in the Gaslight

Poem gas — Sat, 12 Apr 2008 15:15:29 GMT

Love In the Gaslight

There's something there that is not there-
A subtle ripple somewhere underneath.
There was not there when I was there, so
There couldn't be there now that it's just me.

No one said that, you just thought you heard
What you did not know.
If we'd said that, I'd have heard it,
And you know I'd be the first to tell you so.

There's no other now, who wasn't then,
Which is to say there is not;
It's that bothersome search for mythical clues
That creates the very problem you wish to stop.

You need some help, some kind of doctor, just
To show you that it's all been in your head.
"Mother, May I," she asked him then, "just who
Do you want me to try to be instead?"

Oh, Pretty Dear, see here, see here! Those wishes,
You will remember, we decided to toss?
You gave them up anyway, took part in this play,
Then ask me what I did with what you willingly lost?

Until you stop all the asking about
Something more you may need to be knowing,
I will decide what is best for your mind to be fed.
By creating this wall, you ruin what we are at all,
And you never even wait for me to say
"Simon Says."

Why Don't You Get Dressed and Come Down?

Poem gas — Sat, 12 Apr 2008 14:47:34 GMT

Why Don't You Get Dressed and Come Down?

Picking up pieces of myself after pointless searches for proof, and
The attestation you endlessly display leaves me with only one truth.
The dilemma I always allow me to face resurrects an immortal excuse:
The problem must be my lack of concern that it's you I choose to abuse.

Why don't you get dressed and come down here,
With these adversaries, these rivals, these foes, these
Merciless creatures, come here to hunt, come here to wrinkle your nose?
Expressing fear of their collective unclear, obviously to take up my time -

They're legends, like us, who think they've mastered the game,
Fighting wars in the forbidden borders of their mind.
All others believe my battle could end if I would just choose to be fine.
But sure as Satan could seat you also at the foot of his throne,
I will come down, in time.

Spinning the hour glass of ice again in attempt to bury the awareness.
A single truth reiterates fear, just reminds me, more or less,
That I've been here before, a deja' voo, an overexposed picture in time,
A blurry representation of who I once was, outlined in murderous rhyme.

Oh, why won't I get dressed and go down there? Each time has been so cruel.
Hardhearted trolls searching for substance they then enshroud like fools.
Just imagine why I don't want to go down there: in your realm of the untrue.
I dread the lust of your freezing touch as every puff splits me in two.

So I put on my most elegant falsetto, and beat myself inward with each step.
When and where will I find myself then, and were you asleep as I slept?
Every day leaves me breathless from voicing the questions that always remain.
Every time I go down there, I wind up here, still sitting, still the same.

What Law?

Poem gas — Sat, 12 Apr 2008 14:18:48 GMT

What Law?

All along I think that maybe it had already detained me,
Back then when I didn't know what could truly become.
All at once I knew it was something, a familiar comfort to fill all these
Nothings, taking my all when I decided to just try some.
Believing I knew that what I really needed was some other something
than what I'd proceeded to use as the something to fill the void and need.
No, Sir, I'm not in possession of any drug, paraphernalia, or any weapon;
No stolen items, or anything for which you should arrest me.
No hypodermic accident waiting to stick you from the pocket of my pants,
I've never banged anything in these veins, as you can see.
Well, yes, I knew that bag was there, the entire time I was fully aware, but
I'd say it again, since it's the drug, Sir, that's in possession of me.
I don't understand why you're grabbing my hands, the cuffs are too tight,
This is not what I planned, and I can't mask the fear that now rises inside me.
Yes, Sir, I'll confess! I'll even turn State's evidence,
If instead you'll arrest this drug that's in possession of me.