words

in the waning hours
split between infinity and indifference
i wish for anything but reflective boredom,
in boredom i am afraid
of all the things i could have been,
all the futures traded for a handshake at midnight,
what unsown greatness
slung wet and wasted
into laundry baskets
and trash bins
and sink basins so polluted,
so polluted mutant sons surely groan in fabled hatred
from the slickened pipes below;
what king of industry
or economics died how many nights before
by the tired grip of some quick release?
left over the afterbirth continues
to contemplate various awful indignities,
damsels with dead eyes and daddy issues,
synthetic latex smiles so sedated,
chameleons of fantasy and feral yarn,
deranged silhouettes calling out from electron dialogue
and red curtained windows your name in to the night,
come stranger, come customer,
come bored and witless indifferent,
come feel my fleshy sorrow
and pair my agony to yours,
the sum total of wasted prowess
condensed to baser elements,
come touch the dried plum heart where it hangs
so dearly atrophied, so nearly like yours,
in boredom we are but one
split between shame and acceptance
in the waning hours.

-S.C. Martinez