You Ask Politely Why I’m Screaming

God’s living death has made a clown of you
Mutilated your once in his image form.
You, my friend, that strode the earth
as the ancient giants,
A tattered frame with a blistered voice.
Your virulent body helplessly consumes itself.
Your brain still darting sparks,
Brilliant impulses that fizzle somewhere
before the possibility of expression.
.
Die, my friend, die
While the memory of your manhood
Is yet untainted by disgust.


And to the Other

You, my friend, I pause with slight
hesitation to call you that name, friend.
You are hardly worthy of your own poem,
Hardly worthy of your own brilliance.
Daily you imbibed the novel you might have
authored,
You muzzled your thought  like
some naughty beast.
Nightly, in some lousy bar
you sucked up impotent booze,
drunkenly recited fractured fragments
of poetry spewed from a liquified memory.
You pissed your intentions into the stinking urinal
Then stumbled home with some woman
you would rather forget.
Tomorrow or tomorrow
when they lower your casket
No flowers, no dirt
Just blank paper and vapid daydreams
will memorialize your grave.