The Scourge Of AIDS: I Was Hoping It Was Just Bad Dream
The AIDS pandemic has changed everything on the landscape dramatically, The world is forever spinning closer and closer to the sun, metaphorically speaking. There was now no safe sex. Everyone had to use condoms, once only as a defence against unwanted pregnancy and now, it's essential.
The Architects Of An Unsteady World
Your pain is overwhelming you.
To the point where you cannot
And will not vanquish this millstone
That is crushing your self-esteem.
The gifted, kindly
And compassionate souls
Are the ones who pay the heavy price
Of being different. It's been going. Forever.
But, you knew that millstone existed
All too well
That hatred and bigotry have accelerated
To the point where an apex has been reached.
We love you. And that love carries no expiry date
Unlike many others, only hanging around you
Because you're famous. Those talons
Are squeezing you like the jaws of death
So eager to draw celebrity blood from
Just about everyone whose faces
Are tattood by the Master himself
The only way you can take back
Your dignity and search
For that precious, coveted
Anonymity.
lonelyheroine
2017.
Do you have any idea at all
What you've brazenly done to me?
Seems that I'm always taking the fall
While you walk away, scott free.
There's no point in fighting with you
Even though you're clearly to blame
No matter whatever I do.
You insist on playing this game.
Why didn't you keep your big mouth shut?
Now I've lost my job, my home and my pride
I take offence that you called me a slut
Are you pleased that I'm dying inside?
I thought that you loved me as I did you
How could I ever have been so blind?
Because of this, we're totally through
I'll just try to leave all my sadness behind.
Lonelyheroine 2018
Maze Of the Minotaur
A thin, steel-hard wisp of pain
Wraps itself 'round your entrails.
Pulling and twisting
Until nothing remains inside
But blood-red pulp.
You are sustinence for the Beast
And its paste-thick viscous saliva
Makes a path for you to travel
Alone and stripped bare
Of the frankinscence, gold and myrrh
That was your coveted vestibule
And became the mask of idols.
You may have fooled them all.
That preening, posturing guise
Could very well have fused itself
To your soul
As whitening scar tissue meshes
With healthy, living skin.
But the Beast knows the truth
He stands laughing at the core of your prison.
Waiting
Panting
Believing that its convoluted
Sanguinary corridor
Will finally lead you home
To where the horns of self-loathing
And sepulcral, draining despair
Impale you with the pointed remnants
Of a mis-shapen youth
Until you twist and writhe
Until you imploringly beg
For a release
Into
Vacuity.
The Architects Of An Unsteady World
Your pain is overwhelming you.
To the point where you cannot
And will not vanquish this millstone
That is crushing your self-esteem.
The gifted, kindly
And compassionate souls
Are the ones who pay the heavy price
Of being different. It's been going. Forever.
But, you knew that millstone existed
All too well
That hatred and bigotry have accelerated
To the point where an apex has been reached.
We love you. And that love carries no expiry date
Unlike many others, only hanging around you
Because you're famous. Those talons
Are squeezing you like the jaws of death
So eager to draw celebrity blood from
Just about everyone whose faces
Are tattood by the Master himself
The only way you can take back
Your dignity and search
For that precious, coveted
Anonymity.
lonelyheroine
2017.
Do you have any idea at all
What you've brazenly done to me?
Seems that I'm always taking the fall
While you walk away, scott free.
There's no point in fighting with you
Even though you're clearly to blame
No matter whatever I do.
You insist on playing this game.
Why didn't you keep your big mouth shut?
Now I've lost my job, my home and my pride
I take offence that you called me a slut
Are you pleased that I'm dying inside?
I thought that you loved me as I did you
How could I ever have been so blind?
Because of this, we're totally through
I'll just try to leave all my sadness behind.
Lonelyheroine 2018
A thin, steel-hard wisp of pain
Wraps itself 'round your entrails.
Pulling and twisting
Until nothing remains inside
But blood-red pulp.
You are sustinence for the Beast
And its paste-thick viscous saliva
Makes a path for you to travel
Alone and stripped bare
Of the frankinscence, gold and myrrh
That was your coveted vestibule
And became the mask of idols.
You may have fooled them all.
That preening, posturing guise
Could very well have fused itself
To your soul
As whitening scar tissue meshes
With healthy, living skin.
But the Beast knows the truth
He stands laughing at the core of your prison.
Waiting
Panting
Believing that its convoluted
Sanguinary corridor
Will finally lead you home
To where the horns of self-loathing
And sepulcral, draining despair
Impale you with the pointed remnants
Of a mis-shapen youth
Until you twist and writhe
Until you imploringly beg
For a release
Into
Vacuity.
It's a tad melodramatic and overwrought, isn't it? I wrote this poem in
1987. As you may have gathered, I wasn't in a good place back then. I think that
this work can very well be about the AIDS crisis at that time in history, which
is why I'm posting it here. This poem and several others caught the eye of my publisher.
A Gallery Of Empty Frames
Given a comfortable life
In the Post War's living rooms
Portraits on the wall
Hold nothing but empty frames.
So where are the family pictures?
Where are the rare paintings
That Dad paid a fortune for
Prior to his death by Marlboro?
Or should I say "Marble Row?"
Fits doesn't it? The wages of sin
Will never be reimbursed
As the blood donor killed herself.
Don't clutter your mind looking for answers
There aren't any to speak of
And you can stand on the precipice
But you'll be there alone. A snowstorm
away from a devastating avalanche
Doesn't sound pretty, does it?
You betrayed my trust.
Cursed my home and doomed me
To a life of soul-squelching suburbia
Overwhelming with pinks and turquoises
Damn. Didn't homes in the Post War
Deserve more colours than that?
So here I sit---bored, listless, with a twinge
of anger. A street with robotic neighbours
Children caught in various poses
Of spontaneous play: Hop Scotch, skipping ropes
Not to mention defacing of public property
But the parents of three of these kids
Never wanted to capture them
Didn't even own a camera
They just sat back and marveled
At their empty frames.
A Gallery Of Empty Frames
Given a comfortable life
In the Post War's living rooms
Portraits on the wall
Hold nothing but empty frames.
So where are the family pictures?
Where are the rare paintings
That Dad paid a fortune for
Prior to his death by Marlboro?
Or should I say "Marble Row?"
Fits doesn't it? The wages of sin
Will never be reimbursed
As the blood donor killed herself.
Don't clutter your mind looking for answers
There aren't any to speak of
And you can stand on the precipice
But you'll be there alone. A snowstorm
away from a devastating avalanche
Doesn't sound pretty, does it?
You betrayed my trust.
Cursed my home and doomed me
To a life of soul-squelching suburbia
Overwhelming with pinks and turquoises
Damn. Didn't homes in the Post War
Deserve more colours than that?
So here I sit---bored, listless, with a twinge
of anger. A street with robotic neighbours
Children caught in various poses
Of spontaneous play: Hop Scotch, skipping ropes
Not to mention defacing of public property
But the parents of three of these kids
Never wanted to capture them
Didn't even own a camera
They just sat back and marveled
At their empty frames.
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