sickening purple prose

happy or sad — angry or glad
it matters not tonight
still I am here
dark and eternal
melancholy lingers on me
like cheap perfume
or a bad taste in my mouth
constantly hovering
somewhere near the dismal recesses
of foreign unbegotten thought
brought on through self-reflection and
dismissed by Dionysius’ tears
the sun won’t shine
the moon won’t show for me
so I’m left to sit staring
at this blue-green ping-pong ball
around me
neither being hit nor hitting
rather sitting idly
in some bleak atheistic limbo that
never was never will be
only is
sitting solo on the doorstep of the universe
without the keys or even reach enough
to the door handle
(which was broken off eons ago
to my unfortunate misinformation)
listening to the falling of my futile tears
of sorrow and remorse
for a condition neither ascribed
nor achieved but
only is
mine
and mine alone
as all has been until now
and may always be
who can know tomorrow?
or yesterday?
no one knows today
(or at least no one is sharing)
selfish greedy bastards
mistaken in thinking their truths
lie secret in their adulterous bosoms
whilst whores and gigolos sell them
for a quick hot meal and shelter
or an evening’s escape from now
everyone’s an entrepreneur
in today’s mercenary escapist market
of denial
so pity the poor!
they face it all with straight heads
and pure hearts…
should we pity?
or envy?
or rather kill them all —
will that solve the problem?
pity the rich and envy the poor,
condemn the solemn man and
praise ye who worship gossip
and burn books of astute grandeur
of life beyond mere stimuli
action-reaction grows old
in this realm where youth reigns supreme
full of floating nobodies
all are everybody
bearing bridles and saddles
not fit for royalty
but the lowly troubadour
the troubadour who seeks the last
of valiance and chivalry
tell him not that he seeks in vain
and neither grieve him your best wishes
simply let him be whilst
ye sit atop your self-made thrones
seeking the same celestial orbs
that once graced the skies
of this horizon for you
and I
in our untenable bliss
and self-reprieve.

© CSM

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