Pour me a drink, lover.
My heart is stricken;
my rage is mounting.
I want to feel my blade
slash the throat of the past.
Pour me a drink, lover;
soothe my anger
with your smiles.
- mce
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Merely a holding cell for journal entries, wry observations, attempted witticisms, poems and random aphorisms. Sense of humor required. This is poetry, NOT biography. Please do not call 911, stage an intervention or suggest AA. Everyone deserves their own death, allow me mine. Tentative conclusions encouraged. Advice ignored. Absolute truths not welcome. Enlightenment unlikely. Play on.
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2010
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September
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- To Be Continued... Or Not
- Daunting Task
- A Pirate To His Lady
- Requiem
- Sappho: A Lyric Fragment
- No Regrets
- The Meaning Of Suffering
- Linguistic Certainty
- Bad Luck
- Guerrilla Epistemology
- Woman Of Power
- Beyond The Veneer Of Reason
- Egotism
- Sitting
- Hubris
- Dietary Question
- Teetering On The Brink
- Three Days Without Whiskey
- Dream Lovers
- Children
- To Do List
- The Futility Of Meeting New People Late In Life
- Two Poems By Hermann Hesse
- Siren Song
- Preemptive Strike
- Melancholy Paradox
- "Everything's Made To Be Broken"
- Terminus
- Dessert
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September
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