Saturday, January 07, 2017

Seventeenth Poem (Blanket Politics)

This poem will not be about politics or even blankets for that matter.
We all need some security though. Linus wasn’t the only one enlisting the Heavenly aid of something or someone to help him make it through the nights and in his case days.
Security blankey, Golden Calf, we too often desire to worship something we believe is greater than ourselves because it helps offset all the pressure we perceive weighing us down like papers threatening to blow away in a transferable wind.

No, this poem isn’t going to be about eating Chinese food in bed with your significant other as you binge watch something on Netflix that you could honestly give a shit less about.
And this poem isn’t going to trudge into the uncomfortable territory of what do you do when once passionate kisses have turned sour on your jellyfish mouth.
I’ve never been much good at keeping myself satisfied or for that matter interested when involved with another party that’s why I ceased and desisted from attending anymore parties and turned being a wallflower into a cottage industry like moonshine or hacking for a foreign government.

This is the seventeenth poem and no I am not exactly keeping count, but I do know where all of the other poems are buried and if push ever comes to shove I’ll have no problem breaking out my spade and excavating these many words from the Nosferatu cursed ground.
When I’m through picking my nose I will finish this poem with a relatively clean conscience and finger. Sometimes you have to wipe it on the side of the slide on the playground of your childish and rent controlled mind. Other times you’re tempted to eat it, but trust me there’s always someone watching even if you put a piece of tape over your laptop camera.
Snowden isn’t the only one who knows the depth of what is transpiring, but it does appear he’s the only one willing to give up his country to espouse some God awful truth in these rinse and repeat nights of daily breaches of security and nightly raids on another ill-equipped email server.

This poem will end shielding its eyes from the intense heat of a Shakespearean sun.
There’s nothing to be done about it we just have to learn to go about our day in our birthday suits until skin cancer gets the best of us and our bodies go on strike for good.
I’ve resisted kicking the football for far too long so this time when Lucy presents that pigskin to me I will with all my might kick either the ball or her or both into oblivion.

Charles Cicirella

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