ID cAN'T sLEEP

(Jan 08/06)
frogstick3

the ox
of his shoulders
wale with pole marks

the spine
buckled and diminished

I see no end to this slow-wittedness, none whatsoever. Perhaps I can write myself out of this, an erasure, perhaps. I will not finish this poem, this sad excuse for poetic fragility. Fuck the dead, and their sad, pathetic, sadness. I feel sad, sadness, for the living, never for the dead. They deserve nothing more than forgetfulness, and when merited, a quick sigh and a remember when, nothing more. I have reached such a diminishment of self, that I find myself rooting through the ashtray for ends and odds, partial-smokes and nubs. A quid of chaw, maybe, had I any chaw or quid to have thoughts about. Like those Yeomen fucks with their plastic beer cups topped-off with tobacco juice and slaver, sad, pathetic jarheads. If I weren’t a simpleton myself, which I am, sadly enough, I’d figure out some way to masticate the juices, tars, benzene and nicotine out of what’s left in my Petrus Ur-Boonekamp fucking ashtray. As it is, I have saved five cigarettes for the morning, or when I awaken, whichever occurs first. Perhaps I will tamper with the fragile nature of my Ego-lessness and smoke one of the fucker’s now, and be done with counting once and for all. Perhaps I’m the ox, pole marked and spine diminished, fighting for one last inhalation of benzene, tar and nicotine. Who knows? Surely not me, some simulacra of me, that would be sad, dimwitted and sad in deed.