Poem: Happy Birthday
I broke 169 eggs
and before I could
break the last one
my tears spilled
remembering your birthday.
Wrappings, Roses and Tinsel creates presents,
peninsulas, travels, litterings of emails,
well-wishes, seagull fodder, recyclable paper,
books of poems as doorstops,
the such.
I could give you no such thing
being the demon-pieceworker, save-the-water,
convertor of energenetics
I am.
Besides,
the government is a conspiracy
guaranteed to give me cancer
or at least a nosebleed.
They ruined my life.
Collapsible
dates in July fill the Atlantic Ocean
with salty regret. What I hoped then
expired on the sixth, and what hope
tomorrow? Life cannot last
and neither can a birthdate. Too late
is love, rot, decay, earthworms, Summer
Saturday,
movie of the week, heavy metal retro, cliché.
Too early, more of the same.
Still,
happy birthday, to you. Put it in your pocket
‘til next year when I shall not exist.
Happy Birthday
With Love
(2015)
A sadness to the rest of me
wanting a birthday cake and eat it too
until I feel a stomachache
and hope it's just the flu...
But if not, sure as hell
I will cower in some corner
where I swear to God or not
I will change my ways tomorrow.
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