Descencio

How was it that in the time they walked you home
you forgot who you are?
To you, a happy dream,
but to the sober: lit nightmare.

The future is bright, and dull, and white, and dank.
It’d be the gray overtones that both assure and worry.
“Keep drinking the blue milk. You need the calcium, you
Little fuck. You need
A little fuck.”

You’ve got me dreaming of smudges and your
mouth is sour where we’ve bitten, shaken and barren,
scared o’ where I’ve gotten.
Everything is about the homilies and the homilies say nothing about you.

The meadows, O’, the meadows–
They took my bones! I am light at forty.
I can’t barter with my lungs half collapsed, allured. I am distant. You are merry.
Gin and cider, the burgundahlia rising,
…because hurting me now feels like habitual action for your crazy. My descent, a medication.
Keep me around instead.

Life gave me lemons, so I erected lemon stands.
Marxist little bitch machination. I need to buy more problems, then.
They will pass–
they are just scars,
and like all scars,
they, too, so, shall peel away,
and you wouldn’t have to acknowledge to no-ho’s land how much
self-worth was lost back when you were bearing them.
Lose them fast. Lost them fast, then!

There’s nothing more guilt-tripping than my ma dragging my name through lengthy seconds,
and fall back, we do, as children of our inappropriate stance.

What could be more altruistic than our legends, legions, housing in and jousting for
spawn through
flash fires and flash floods.
Still we rise and, still, we glance.

O’, debris– riot!
O’, debris– Parthian shot!
Our bellies heavy on bellicose rock
thorazine and linchpins and bon mot and
last fast flare retreating, and lash.

Life is but a pentapartite of leberwurst, accidental
antecedents, dream pop,
Romesco, deictic
denigrations.
Spry in harangue, we are
the ho’s surplus of hem and haw. Entiendes, err? And still
we gild the dead lilies and the pill-bellieds. It’s one-way misery,
Mirror and myrrh. We’ve solved before. We’ll solve again, yes, sir!

Aah– must we been have raised
to be such and such, the darling fatalists!

Isn’t it wonderful how one can go so fast from peak life to peak tragedy?
Peek, then! Go ahead… Peek.

I tossed a name to the mercury pond,
like a whisper,
like a punch.

“Do you know him? Know him by any
chance?”

“He’s known for something he’s done years ago.”

“Aah–
The fucker– hasn’t made
anything worthwhile
since then.”

“Aah–
The boar-headed– hasn’t birthed
anything good for our Earth
in years.”

That had always been
the only response.

The reason why so few grievances work so well is because they knew exactly what they wanted to grieve on.
The same could not be said about the stars– they work so far away.
They don’t borrow light from anyone, sure, but they lose all identity, become one with the rest of the sky.

That’s good, I think. We can’t always just depend on
Lamp posts
Leaking the government’s money like it were piss.

Be careful with the world’s water.
It supplies to so many lives,
Some times cutting steel, some times hit and miss.

We’re all sinners. Some just sin more interestingly.
The systems we have in place will never work to make everybody happy.

.
..
….

they will pass
You will have your year
You will have your year
just focus on your art
You will have your year
And it will take you by the rear


OTHER POEMS BY ETHAN LESLEY CC | CLICK HERE TO VIEW ALL || Blue Milk, poetry
 
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