When The End Is The Beginning

When the end is the beginning,
and the middle the same as both,
a question of insanity
emerges.

Cold nights -
city lights -
solitude pervading
all.

A drink in hand
is worth two
in the
grave.

I miss you all -
every single breast
and withered peach
below.

I wish I knew why
but I have no truth,
just empty hands
and cold, and cold,
and nights alone dwelling
on my
mistakes.

I don't believe in the future
and I hardly trust
myself.

Sometimes I think that
my tomorrows will only be seen
by those
who mourn
me.

A Word To The Wise

Here are the things that I would say
were I to actually dare give advice.

Don't drink.
Don't smoke.
Don't stay out later than 8 pm.
Don't break the law because they'll get you
every
time.

Don't trust women.
Don't trust men.
Don't ride the bus.
Don't give money
to
strangers.

Don't believe what you hear,
because what you hear
is
false.

Your selfish desires will kill you.
So will your best intentions.
No one is real.
Everyone is transient.
Love doesn't exist,
and if it does,
I haven't seen it
yet.

And if someone tells you that they love you
within the first two weeks
of courtship...

End transmissions, secretions, and all donations
of
fluids.

It Is Nights Like These

Its nights like these
when the sun,
like love,
isn't strong enough to
keep hearts
or bodies
warm.

The street's corners are dark and
I look up at the windows
of tall buildings -
imagining happy families with hopes and
dreams.

I try to forget the red haired and
red blooded
woman who left my bed
as cold as the air
not long
ago.

I think how I should wash the sheets.
But then I wouldn't smell her anymore.
Her hair still strewn over my pillows
and floors.

The bus pulls to the curb
and I step in
to go
nowhere.