Monday, December 26, 2016

Derelict Christmas

Let us share war stories of when we were both whores and the insolvency of having nothing begat the heresy burning in our “Silent Night” eyes.
I believe I’d be lost without you until realizing being without you would only lighten my emotional load and make the sleigh bells tolling less invasive and stinging with reprisals.
There’s always been something that appealed to my Guthrie senses about jumping on a freight train as we flee from our nightmares like a raft of loons high on Crazy Glue codependency and our unwillingness to stay in one place for too long.

I don’t know how to explain how one word leads to the next and then to the next, but that’s how I’ve always written these secret poems as the canvas shrinks and the wall only becomes that much more difficult to climb.
I’ve always been a restless son of a bitch as my brain like a team of Budweiser Clydesdale’s does its best to get out of town with its goodwill still somewhat in-tact.
I have friends who believe they are artists and I have friends who actually are artists and never shall the twain meet or for that matter clumsily fuck in a bathroom stall crawling with bugs and Catholic priests.

You want to understand even remotely what it means to give yourself over to the darkness?   
You want to feel how unequipped most, if not all, of us are for the death awaiting us like another seasonal carnival or visit to the McBurglar proctologist?
Trust me when I tell you you’re better off unchosen and loved because those of us who are unwashed and disenfranchised will never get use to the burn of another uninhabited Christmas day.

Let us begin the work of casting off the hemorrhoids and barnacles attaching to our backsides like another unread Oprah book club entry.
There’s nothing like pretending you’re a celebrated saint only to end up disassembled and cast aside on the floor of another spiteful child’s restricting bedroom.
I try to remember a happy childhood, but it’s all in vain because memories like vampires are best left in their coffins unless you have a wooden stake and some garlic handy.

If I could even begin to explain all the bullshit that came before whatever is coming next maybe then I’d be able to fall asleep or at least pretend I was dead.
I was suffering from a loss of oxygen so I did my very best to regain some semblance of consciousness, but it was all in vain as I fell beneath the waves and became a little mermaid.
There’s always been something about the way you never look away when I stare into your dark eyes that reminds me how fortunate I am to be above ground and breathing.

Charles Cicirella

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