Poem

Dying,
Falling from the sky.
Always and forever,
back to recreation.
Parachute Open
and the flash has gone;
That's what it feels like
before nothing...
Floating,
on a pool of Pellegrino
gone flat: but the smell
tastes of waste: Oh Luxury!
But I want evian tomorrow.
What will I want after that?
Its never enough,
said the stockbroker,
his wife recounting their
daughter's latest shopping spree
on their credit card:
consumerism is HIV,
it only turns to aids
when you get into debt.
Money always burns
a hole in the pocket,
pick a joke: and through
that pocket man feels cocky,
probably pride, achievement,
money: he must have reasons,
or else he is so daft,
he has never seen himself
for who he is, but has
always let his appearance show
who he sees himself to be:
the briefcase must be full
or you really should be
put down - but I believe
in unconditional forgiveness:
fakers are lying in action:
is this punishable? Worse than
drug dealers.

Friday night and the city is jumping
lights are glaring,
meat markets full of sweaty
hogs looking to find drunken
hence willing attractives
to ravage for 5-10
before passing out
wasting a little piece of rubber
because the bond of trust has not
yet been established.

I lay back into my chair,
realize I sat on Lacan,
light up my pipe,
think about being
straightforward
and simple enough
to convey my messages
to everyone, yet
I also think
about what I don't want
to make clear, what
I don't want others to know...
Most of these I have tried
to forget
some I will never remember,
but remembering those that
I do will
give me pleasure:
By then I will have forgotten
that I didn't want to tell anyone:
I just forgot what I was going to write.