The Grudge by Christopher
Six inches and still falling, filling the concave
Of a weak spirit fading. So cold; the belly of the
Worm lurks like white lightning within the inception
Of obscurity: the premise of my substance.
I am inconsolable, a nomad sleeping in snow, dreaming
Of a life chimerical. Compelled by my own ethos
To leave what affection remained after the realization
Of my inherent nescience and take ablution in an icy river.
But there are some things soap just won?t clean
No matter how hard you scrub, no matter how hard
You surrender. I couldn?t get the inadequacy off my
My skin; the only solution was ablation with isolation
And a razor.
Even then I could comprehend that this drastic action
Was only a nepenthe to ease and/or prolong
My monomania of felo-de-se; just another escape
To wash away the unrelenting pain of monotony:
Discontent ad infinitum day after day.
Alone I reverted to the inconsistent instincts of a monstrosity
Whose mind mimicked a barren waste land, permeated
With hard plastic earth, jagged metal rocks, and sharp glass sand.
Movement made the ground mutate like moods, but distance
Had no significance to an insular soul striving for a swift
Resolution, in abeyance, waiting for alms, or a purpose.
A melancholic mendicant begging for meanings: the
Only possession needed to survive the slaughterhouse
World comprised of anti-empathetic rejection, retribution, and wrath.
An aeon of rebirth, in the sick cyclic transgression from growth to decay
Has taught me one true proverb: its better to be a tenement of clay.