Wednesday, November 29, 2017

Secret Alphabets

Writing again
I think
The kind of writing that will never get the attention of John Burroughs
Sometimes I wonder why that is. Most of the time I just accept the reality lying before us, perverse and swollen, bubbling with machismo and rapid fire flatulence
Christina M. Brooks is considering quitting poetry which really pisses me off because she has a real gift. Plus not sure how you give up something you’re born to do

Smoking pot
Listening to The Doors
Thinking about the young woman who sold me my bong. Her ass looked amazing inside those tight blue jeans. Made me rethink killing myself for the time being
Wanna get high?
Wanna break on through?
Then stop believing the endless barrage of bullshit being spilt like milk or a child’s blood

Charles Cicirella

Just The Tip

Burned the tip of my finger
Lighting the glass pipe
I guess it’s the price of being a stoner

Always wanted to believe irresponsibility was a virtue
Here’s my rub if fucking little boys in the butt
Isn’t a cardinal sin then pray tell what is?

Drank the two cans of Coke in the frig
Now I want more because it only takes one can
To become addicted to the Black Death that is Coca-Cola

And I wanted to drink lemonade with you beneath a shade tree,
But there’s only the lemons of my life and shade is non existent
In this Donnie Darko darkness

Maybe a sugar free grape Popsicle will do the trick
If I can get passed the flavor of artificial sweetener
I’m not a rat in a maze even though Pavlov is my God

I know the grass is running out
I’d be a liar if I said that wasn’t bringing me down
The genius of being a genius is catch and release

Charles Cicirella

Thursday, November 02, 2017

I don’t know how to grieve.

My mother died
Don’t have a clue what to do with this Intel
All my tears are conscientious objectors from another unobserved police action

I covered up her face with a white sheet
Then I uncovered her face so she could sing like a nightingale
I pray the check to the rabbi doesn’t bounce because I don’t feel like going to Hell today

I don’t know how to grieve
Properly or improperly
All my coping mechanisms have flown south for the winter

Tired of pretending I’m broken
Tired of wishing ill on others because I don’t know how to build my own happiness
Tired of being tired and want to wake up and walk away from all this sadness

My mother is dead
My father has been out of the picture for quite some time
Picture perfect families only exist on TV and in our most warped of nightmares

Grief and I have never quite seen eye to eye
When Hospice called I was inconsolable
Soon I stopped crying and a drought took hold like an absentee parent or vengeful God

Charles Cicirella

Wednesday, November 01, 2017

Baby Doll Mask (For Juliet)

Sequined pain
Streaming blood pageantries
Rusted Midwest soliloquies
Art witch seductress Brainiac
Bathroom stalled Obsessive

Charles Cicirella