more dark poetry, sorry...

tired of truthiness

how many ways are there to say
that living is a lonely business
that loving in a culture of cruelty
hurts worse than death
that safety in a field of glass
is a pretty illusion

how many love-years will be spent
shopping for the perfect mannequin
at a local meat-market
perusing the profiles
dreaming pretty dreams
staunching the blood

how many words of wisdom will be spoken
before we awaken to our sleeping
to our enchantment in the womb
our aborted spirits
twisting on dried cord
human doings
turned inside out
feeling so safe and warm
in crusted layers of calcified skins
sediments of want, and lack
and the unholy terror
and the unspeakable horror
that we visit on each other
while awaiting a midwife to heaven
in lieu of life

how many eons of dream will be spent
suckling at the teat of tyrants
believing their toothy promises
wiping our blood from their chins
and learning their ways
and living their ways
and teaching their ways to our children

we all know these things
we know there is a better way
but we are enchanted by our own chatter
our own convincingness
and in love with alliance
and attracted to agreement
and uninterested in
any inconvenient truth
that happens by

even the earnestly spiritual
seem fascinated with rules and baubles
and prettified judgments

but I am done with it
speaking only for myself
It is not my path
to connect
it is only a dream

want to get real?
me too…

the mannequin