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Poetry Magnum Opus

dark morbid nights and early morning thoughts


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two dark poems from my college days published in Rosset Maleficarum 


Depressed Morbid Nights


One of these depressed, depraved, morbid nights

I shall awake to the God damned game of life


And sit under the graying light

Of the foolish full moon


And laminate upon my luminance

And chew up the garments of past lives


And cry my soul

But no one will hear the plight of my mind

On strike for better wages

And more love


Thus, I will sit, and think and dream

Dreams that no one ever before dreamt


It is so very lonely being a foolish lunatic

But then as I drink to oblivion

I begin to think


Of all those things that I have not experienced

And wonder with a vengeance


Why God hates me so

Or is it only an illusion?


When will I awake

Or do we just sit waiting for more beer

To cover up


The stench of putrid rotting flesh

Waiting for death to take us away


To the Cosmic garbage dump in the sky

Trying to communicate across a gap


That is light years’ long

And will never close


For man was not made to know

The real thoughts of another


Man was made to suffer, cry and wait

For the party in Hell afterwards


Shit, let’s us die and be done with it

Or live without our God damned dreams


Running our thoughts

Into pits of depraved madness



Early Morning Thoughts


Early in the midst of a chaotic frenzy

I caught the fragrance of her sweat grin

And my heart did a swirling spin

When I saw that vision of erotic delight


There I stood

Alone in a somehow too dismal room

Full of vibrant people

I knew not what to say


So, I spent that dismal day

Thinking dismal morbid thoughts of lugubrious doom

Thoughts what might happen that day

And what might have been if I had the courage to say Hello


Thus, it went

Years after ever melancholy year

Days after ever gloomy days

Nights of self-induced torture


Months of nightly rancid beer

There it went



I am sitting and thinking

Thoughts so gloomy

I still don’t know


Life belongs to the living

Not to the morbid mystic dreamers

Nor the poets dying

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