Passionate Love

Passionate love, he thought,
can be satisfied— the sages are clearly wrong
He walks along, she yappers on
She would come to think that every plug is so the same
except for those few with design flaws or defects...
“Don’t show me two inches” she’d genially say
He seemed a normal enough dreamy sort of kid
Sometimes he’d separate himself from the others,
clap his hands, whisper something to himself and laugh
Says the sage “Give up headless luxury, socializing,
worldly advancement, fighting, whoring, drinking, fucking
Your life won’t seem so short then...
Fill the endlessness with philosophy, vitality, and it goes on and on
The wise will distill the right for you and are never too busy to say
They’ll never let you go home empty-handed or alone”
Of course they want this war, those neocon, fucking fools
They’ve never seen the bodies decay or vomited in the sulfurous fields
or smelled the stink of human flesh as it rots
Their religions are all, without exception, abject nonsense
They live in absurdity and if rich, they know nothing about life on the dole,
on the road, in custody, or on the make
Does she still fuck the lights out or is her body now
as dried up, useless, and cold as her soul?
Humans seem to enjoy inflicting cruelty...
She won’t sleep well again until the dear one comes home
He’ll get here one way or another, she knows, he’ll just float his way seaward,
like soft shards of seasoned, smooth, discolored, old driftwood


-December 23, 2012-