May 4: Yours/Mine, Withholding, Grouchiness, more grouchiness…

Your downtown is not at all my downtown.

Yours is a sexy and exclusive clown;

Mine looks at more than black and white and brown.

Your downtown is not at all my downtown.


Your home feel is not at all my home feel.

Yours gets injections to create appeal;

Mine at times falls short, but at least it’s real.

Your home feel is not at all my home feel.


Your fairness is not at all my fairness.

Your ideals would profit from a huge mess;

Mine would find ways to help, a decent guess.

Your fairness is not at all my fairness.


You get the message: you can’t pass the buck.

This poem is about how much you suck.


Never explain your life to anyone,

And if someone asks, get set to have fun:

Make up some ripe lies—yes, spin out a tale

Of dones and didn’ts—don’t let them exhale!

Surely you’ve got a daydream that’ll stun.


Why not offer a good explanation

For all the craziest things that you’ve done?

Nobody’s going to roil, reel, or rail:

Never explain your life.


Maybe I’m all wrong: you’ve not yet begun

To really live, to have days in the sun.

Maybe you’ve got the bug, the banshee’s wail,

And you would shriek it all, every detail,

But you still shouldn’t—you’d best choose a gun.

Never explain your life.


Seamus awoke on the dull scratchy side,

Unimpressed by his own dry sentiment,

Burdened by grouchiness no one could hide,

Weighted by some grumps to his detriment.

Having lost track of all tact, which had died,

He called being awake experiment.


Much else in life, too, was experiment;

The trick to knowing was choosing a side—

Bully or bully—the real champs all died—

But the one you chose would show sentiment

That props you up to others’ detriment.

Thus the social experiment won’t hide.


But on days like these, Seamus would rather hide:

He’d not perform for an experiment

Or even process others’ detriment

Because his brain was deep on the fried side

And he’d have to scrounge for a sentiment

Even if he found out the whole world died.


Maybe overnight something inside died,

Some animate force you typically hide

Because it’s tender, loose with sentiment,

Prone to trust, and prone to experiment

With activities on the free wild side,

Freedom found to be of great detriment.


How much of this was fearing detriment,

Fearing what would be after something died,

Fearing having no one else on your side,

Fearing having no place left to hide,

Fearing love was a cold experiment,

Fearing the costs of sharing sentiment?


That seemed too grandiose a sentiment

For a morning of grouchy detriment

To no one but himself, experiment

To no one but himself, who may have died

To no one but himself, so he would hide

From no one but himself, on his own side.


Even the scratchiest sentiment died

With the detriment he would never hide

As he performed experiments inside.


Bad days begin with a bang, inner din

To wake all the demons feeding on sin

From past encounters with people I’ve known

In deepest mistakes, each one that I own,

And demons latch on to each with a grin.


If each demon could prick me with one pin

I’d end with ten million pricked deep within.

Like one accustomed, I would merely groan:

Bad days begin.


I prattle of demons, saved in a bin,

Barrel of monkeys, drowning in fine gin—

I seek the treatment for seeds that I’ve sown—

Drinking and smoking won’t do it alone—

How do you tend what goes under the skin?

Bad days begin.


Ansel the Anvil goes down to the line.

He dashes enemies’ brains every time.

Dressed up for tennis with racket to mime,

He serves up bombs knocked from heights near divine.


Coifed by professionals, he looks quite fine

Drinking his tonic and gin with a lime

Behind a shower of self-shielding grime

That basically serves as a quarantine.


His motivation’s a slippery force,

As he only takes orders from Ollies.

He doesn’t seek fame or care for money

But from reality wants a divorce

To escape humankind’s many follies—

Thus Ollie science is good as honey.


This is the quiet that goes forever.

Nothing will ever work out in the end.

The time for moving was then—now, never.


The wind had your back—swoosh, like a feather—

But in a pillow in stasis you blend.

This is the quiet that goes on forever.


You have brought a map—well, aren’t you clever!

Didn’t they tell you that paper will rend?

The time for moving was then—now, never.


You and your pals will make it together?

How often you see the back of a friend!

This is the quiet that goes on forever:


The words hold you in place like a tether,

Blocking each meaning you think, you intend—

The time for moving was then—now, never—


Never to be, forever to sever

From the relations you couldn’t defend—

This is the quiet that goes on forever—

The time for moving was then, now, never.


A world that got stuck with no solutions,

Rising tide levels, global pollutions

Rewriting keywords in constitutions

With increased profits, low contributions—


For the rich folk have destroyed everything.

Mermaids have been canned; that’s fried dodo wing.

They don’t care what’s dead; they don’t feel the sting

Of the dreaded apocalypse they bring.


When it’s us or them, we vote suicide.

We’re so darned clever—check out our huge pride.

Cheer America! Who’s on Russia’s side?

We screwed ourselves because rich people lied.


Hey-ho, it’s a-go, the end-of-world show!

You wanted to know. You do. What a blow!

Talking to you is way more interesting than talking to myself. What do you think?

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