Self pity is all that this is. Although I feel like a commercial whore, advertising it. It's never as bad as I make it out to be, though. So please enjoy, and leave a review if you wish.


Words are fickle friends today
eternally abandoning, never staying -
the moment is always Now.

But Now shifts -
a thousand references to
places and events at which
I was never present,
never there.

And whenever you or anybody speaks,
a glistening profile
swerves out from a spine of thoughts
to lick at me as if a flame,
then retreats back into bone
as if it never happened.

Solar flares and the such -
all of life is haunted.

I do not write in meter or rhyme,
but in decibels
of death, or love, or both.

If you weren't transparent,
would I be satisfied?
Or simply saturated?

This ebony urn
holds the ashes -
flakes of burnt magnesium,
my fleshy idiopathy.

My magnum opus is past its due
but here I am, instead,
worrying about the thousand selves
I could have been,
and what a waste it was
to shove away my chutzpah -
but I look better in camouflage anyway.

Lament, lament, it's all I ever do. For anyone who's wondering - a brodie is defined as a "suicidal jump" or "spectacular failure." Take your pick.