gentleman; bastard

bees wax poetic on a dusty record player

warped ancient vinyl dancing circular

designed to emanate symphonic melody;

instead a discordant sound.

I stood in the doorway and watched her cry

that last bit of life we shared now gone,

extinguished in a single barbed comment

because we went to bed angry.

what should have been whimsical and delicious

now the tinny cat gut sound of dying affection.

heat swelters through this old stick frame house

baking the trapped occupants to a sickly sticky end.

while the world spins oblivious outside

the night calls out, but the stars can’t reach;

light dimmed by the cloud of emotion that hangs

damp and deep over our heads.

sweat from frustrations long pent up

soaks the sheets where we once tossed.

words should be so poetic but fall hollow on a page

hollow as the sound of an empty chamber in the gun,

hollow as the sound of an empty glass that once held liquor

and dreams and romance and desires and lust

all things that would have made this life complete

but for the fact that effort couldn’t compete with impotence.

and now Ginsburg himself can hear the howl;

tortured scream of pain that should have been mistaken for ecstasy

now sounds of an animal in its death throes.

if only a simple apology could fix all the wrongs

a kiss good night could say all the things that needed  said.

we might not be here now wasting away

dying of thirst because we are too oblivious to notice

we were each others’ resuscitation.

too late too bad so sad now gone.

the world has moved on and I wasn’t invited.

© 2013 p.hill