The old playground you visit:
Where you got your first concussion
Where you first fell in love
Where you first knew heartbreak
It is made of mud, junkie needles, and used condoms
All the dirty froth on the orgasmic daydream.
You still stay
A supplicant, knees bent low, arms outstretched.
You want the holy manna of better days.
You hold out your tongue,
But only taste rain.
The old hometown you walk:
Where you first got drunk
Where you first felt freedom
Where you were first alone
Is nothing special.
It’s another nowhere place with animated cadavers
Hoping for a do-over.
Chasing and seeking, but never finding
That are always fleeting.
The old house you watch:
Where you were born
Where you forced your first smile
Where you cried
Belongs to someone else—
Some other family
To take over, to raid and pillage
To make strangers pay for a life wasted
A new prayer
Same as the old prayer
All over again.
Lust, the purest form of passion,
But no less torture.
Cave walls, coated in auroch tallow,
Presented nude scenes.
Lord knows what the hominids did…
But we, in hyper-speed, are caught in the meltdown—
Flesh tied to cybernetic wires,
With masturbation machines replacing bone.
There is no escaping the oppression,
Mostly because it feels so good.
The erotic is a muscle; it reminds you to replicate.
Muscles atrophy / muscles expand.
Eros remains, like a vampire,
To suck the life out of you
With false hopes of better beds.
Reflections Of A Tory
All have fled;
I should have left, too.
But one gets accustomed to roots—
The house, the trees, and streams.
To be without them is to be bereft
Of life, liberty, and happiness.
I will never be happy again—
Not here nor in Canada.
No reason to move,
Even if the neighbors despise me,
And leave gore-soaked love notes
On my broken fence.
It is all the same in this world.
Lucifer, our taskmaster here,
Loves a Loyalist to suffer.
And for king and country I suffered.
I would do so again.
One must take a stand,
Even if only to be beheaded.
Go ask King Charles, holy martyr,
About fairness or justice.
Ask the saints too.
The days are blue and the nights black—
From dust to dust and all that.
Yes, I will stay.
From the ice of January,
To the roses of May.
I will stay.
And be a righteous reminder
Of the path not taken.
— Arbogast is a poet with a blog. You can purchase his new poetry collection, “Nocturnes”, here.