Inspired by the sacrificial spirit of Lent (and by the obligation to write, since there’s no wifi in my studio), I came up with the following. It’s NOT a poem. It’s more like a monologue written in that annoying style playwrights are using these days where they break lines for no reason. Don’t call it a poem. Guys, stop, don’t post it online calling it a poem! Don’t give me that poetry award, I’m NOT A POET!!
There is a monster living inside me
I feel it when I wake up, in my bloated stomach
(or is it deflated? Either way it hurts)
And in my pulsating shoulders and hips and wrists
I see it in the purple rings under my eyes
It blocks my sinuses
And makes my moles itch as if they were mosquito bites
The monster hates peace
Whenever I settle on the couch
And there’s nothing to worry about
And I don’t check my phone
And there’s a lull in the TV show I’m watching
The monster asks, like Peggy Lee
“Is that all there is?”
“Is that all there is to this TV show?”
“Is that all there is to couch?”
“Is that all there is to tonight?”
And it convinces me there should be more
I should order Uber Eats
I should fix myself a drink
I should smoke a cigarette
I should look at some porn
Or talk to strangers on the internet
And masturbate until weird hours of the night
Maybe it’ll taste good
Maybe it’ll get me nicely drunk
Maybe it’ll make pleasantly dizzy
Maybe I’ll find love and feel whole
Maybe I’ll be happy
But nothing helps
Nothing calms the monster down
It only makes it worse
Because the monster cannot be calmed down
Because the monster hates peace
And to be happy is to be calm
To be calm is to have peace
I have a fantasy that one day
I’ll eat so healthy that the monster will starve
And exercise so hard that the monster will be dislodged
And not have a drink so much that the monster will dehydrate
And not smoke at all so the monster will asphyxiate
And not masturbate to the internet so the monster will be alone
And it will die
And I’ll feel this huge stomach ache
Which will turn into a huge cramp
Which will turn into a huge urge to shit
And I’ll take the most difficult dump of my life
And when it’s done I’ll look down
And the monster will be there in the water
And I will feel sorry for it
Because it’s tiny and hurt and dead
And it doesn’t look so bad now
But I’ll still flush
And it’ll be gone
My insides will still hurt
Because it clawed at them on its way out
Trying to survive
But it will be a good hurt
Like your muscles hurt the first day back at the gym
And I’ll be calm
And I’ll be happy
And I’ll know peace.
(But I know
As long as I’m alive
The monster is alive too.)
Don’t send this for consideration to the MTA’s poetry posters, it’s NOT a poem.
I loved your NOT poem, reminded me of Bukowski's Bluebird:
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?