So(u)liloquy

You can tell Mr. Prufrock that April is indeed the cruelest month;
Seven years ago, my first love sprouted from the showers.
Seven minutes ago, my second love died from the wasteland.

You can tell Mr. Prufrock that if he reads much of the night,
he shall see: I am The Wasteland.
You cannot dare, no, you cannot dare.

But you shall breathe when forestry loops itself around you
over and
over and

over–

Ghostly abandonment, and –”You must not use adjectives, young writer.”
Shadow your fears,
follow them just enough to see:
Life.
And its lack thereof.

This is an adolescent homage to the lost,
the last, the languid,
those who went lame with thought.

Irrelevancies in sequence,
adorned in all those winding streets of min(e/d).
My candles burned for the sons I lost at war.
They burned me down.
Their light cast more darkness… more.
More of an entropic descent.

If you cannot be human, you must
cease existence.

Contrive and orchestrate
an unforgiving stupor of
not wanting anything but
mastering the use of adjectives

to levy upon

loss.

 

-Influenced by: Eliot, Bukowski, and Hemingway.