35 years ago
the only thing
I understood was
the futility of brakes
on a foot of snow
After all these years
you’re still hanging around
in the shadows,
to be seen,
even with the new
motion sensor lights
on the front of the house,
just a glint of blond,
a white dress,
a cold Saturday alone.
You drift in when
you never let me
see your face
hear your voice
feel your heart
you are nothing
but a Mass card
buried in a drawer
my father threw away
with the rest of the
It is worth noting that future events worsening is unacceptable. I’ve almost forgotten I would have been terrified by his advantage, but Tuesday last weekend was wondering what diverse elements are sorry for your loss. I did not have to face that issue. We were not close in the last years of his life, and I had been toying with the idea to instantly connect to what’s most important: friends, breaking news, a great weekend, a lack of understanding. The nightmarish images cover every phase of life, how I had to obtain a restraining order against meandering musings and the mind. We have been able to feel rejected, and a social utility that connects people can make us panic in such a way that we can age out of nothing but heat and darkness. A stunning woman in imminent danger inspires in you feelings of pity and a wondrous sense of nightmare; I wasn’t in the mood to soften my position on highly improbable marathons that don’t exist anywhere except in the mind.
You didn’t know this child.
The less you know about me the better.
The grave digger will find all the sick little secrets.
I’m standing over the grave of another dead secret.
Will they be used against you when they are revealed?
I don’t want to give the bastard the satisfaction,
but if I am only as sick as my secret,
are you then purely anecdotal?
I hear silent cries.
I might as well be pissing on his grave.
You sick bastard!
Your ideals lie as dead as men in secret graves,
a Pandora’s box of all the hateful parts:
your arrogance, your spite, your condescension.
I just dug up a grave, dug around a bit, and found
the remnants of your sick, demented being.
Some secrets are better left six feet under;
all your lies and secrets get buried in unhappy fate.
I might have guessed your little secret.
Ah, yes, sick enough to want to believe so badly,
I was ill-prepared to call you an evil loathsome bastard.
What one secret have you taken to the grave?
– for A.
Shown to be driven by greed and a love for overdose,
Greedy perhaps, this item is no longer available.
One of the oldest and most venerated scams,
I administered the goop myself, quick-fix hegemony.
She was ritually sacrificed to Moloch,
found dead in her apartment from a drug overdose.
We are controlled.
There is no free will.
The combination of drugs taken caused the death:
partying, getting drunk, more sex, promiscuity, back stabbing, greed.
The Moloch Game is the deadliest of all games,
played for “glory” or for commercialism,
the greed of a peaceful death,
the same hunger, humiliation, ignorance, vice, greed, extortion, chicanery.
Like Moloch said, we’re violence-wracked and polluted by chemical greed.
No one has ever died from an overdose of prescription painkillers,
and in overdose they are particularly dangerous
because they tend to burn greedy doctors.
Insatiable greed planned to continue even after her death.
We have all seen this often and see well where greed destroys,
naked and lifeless on the toilet,
dead symbol for the Canaanite deity Moloch,
to whom children were to fill the void
where their soul should be
with prescriptions until they overdose.
Devastating, devastating corruption and greedy medical orgies,
waking up naked in a hospital morgue.
She was found dead of an overdose the next morning.
prophecy swirling farcical
afraid nor propensities
are not constituted
voidness cannot injure
A chance poem derived from The Tibetan Book of the Dead, 3rd ed. (1957), translated by W.Y.Evans-Wentz.