Get Over It

To the million voices in the damned pointy head, it’s high time you guys shut the hell up. Collectively, you give rise the worst possible headache ever known to mankind. I’m fuckin’ serious. And that bleedin’ elusive whatchamacallit — you know, just shut it. Half the time, you get squashed. The other half of the time… you don’t get enough credit. So really, why bother? Just take the nearest exit, do not pass ‘go’, do not collect $200.

It’s easier cruisin than working overdrive. Don’t forget, y’all are severely sleep-deprived. You know how that impairs your processing capabilities. I kid you not. One of these days… the pound of flesh is gonna make its presence (or lackof) very, very known.

Aside: I don’t care to get into yet another near-fatal accident. The last time, a bloody cab glanced the passenger side, leaving a bleedin’ gapin’ dent just inches from where I was comfortably ensconced. This time, I’m happy to report that there’s only a bleeding bone bruise at the shoulder thanks to my driver’s speedy reflexes, not.

Perfidia (revised)

Delusive hope, so often
the fickle partner of strong love
dwells in the well of lost plots,

where malformed ideas ferment
in the ironic streams of faux narratives,
permanently dammed

’til an invisible hand offers
salvation to all who are faithless,
boojummed into a cynic’s myopic view

from cliches and ideals and scorn
a faint gossamer thread is woven,
strung across one world and the next,

always in search for the elusive raven,
a cunning jester festering in Poe’s wake,
he clenches melancholy like a worn silk scarf.

From the rubik cube of space and time
flies a scarlet ibis banished
from a rime of sea and salt, silently watching

Delusive hope, so often
the fickle partner of heady wine-love,
curves her lips in a Sissyphus smile.