Bad Poetry Scribbled on the Back of Journal Articles

I seem to only be able to write on the back
of journal articles,
words taunt me,
flaunt me with their big round voluptuous
curves, the ink spreads on the page,
black and richly wet,
marking me on some deeper level that
connects me with myself,
and I know what I write isn't good or beautiful,
but it is true,
for I cannot lie to the paper that sees all,
knows all,
for it would mean that I lie to myself,
and such a heinous act should never be committed,
for if I lie to everyone else I still have myself,
but if I lie to myself, I have no one,
maybe God,
and He seems to be a bit silent.


You try to apply yourself to something good and true,
but all you get,
some false jet fuel and a drink,
can't think enough to send me a link to your favourite song,
put on a long face and undo your thong
as you bend and twist over his body,
you call shotty on his plain and wild - naughty!
That's what he says, as you bend over his face
and in the space between you and his place, you smile
in hope that maybe for a while, you'll forget
the world that begot you,
and the universe that surrounds you
will no more impact the soul within you.
But all you're left with is some dirty underwear
that without a care, he threw at your face
covered in his sweat, and now there is no case
to justify the suicide that appeared
on the front page of "The National".


It makes me laugh that you treat me
like the empty packet that once
held an artificial sweetener inside,
sucralose or aspartame,
all cancer inducing molecules spent
trying to awaken that thick, bitter liquid
that emanated from your perfectly pink
mouth, with teeth stained from so many years
of lying,
and being lied to,
and now you smile at me and I can't see
where the affection in your eyes used to be,
and every word that left your mouth,
that used to tickle my inner ear
now lays useless on the sidewalk,
where the melting slush run over by
cars that harbour malicious intents of their own
drive over them,
with only their own cares pressing upon them,
horns floating, lost to the atmosphere.



I never used to drink coffee.
I used to find it too bitter,
needed milk and spoonfuls of sweet silky
sugar, to brighten up the brown black
hole in the mug,
back when my grandmother made me puff pastries
and warm pancakes,
and my sister curled up against me at night,
and I would wake up to make sure that she had
at least half the pillow, and that her knobby knees
were covered by the pink blanket
that we had bought five years ago.

Now I drink coffee,
black, with fake sugar
so that I don't gain any more fat
as the thick layer across my soul makes it
hard for me to button my jeans,
my new communion wine,
because I can't remember the last time
I saw the inside of a church,
my faith still intact, but my mind shattering,
and I asked you to chase the ghosts away with me,
and you promised that you would,
but here I am,
drinking coffee with no milk.