On the futility of writing

Cleaning ladies,
With speech impediments,
Drink until dawn.
Maybe they’re Scottish after all.

People on the street turn away.
Borrowing ideas from books has finally caught up with you.
In your mind it was only research, but you have been found guilty as charged.
Your mass of mangled phrases, has only added to the confusion at large.

Amnesia was always a possibility, or maybe just a convenient excuse.
Did you really believe your silence at the trial, best represented truth or farce?

Thank God that after the shooting stopped, no one cared about your credentials.
They just needed someone to stop the bleeding.

In the morning even the bed crumbles at your very touch.
Looking in the closet just one more time, now cringing at the very thought.
The persistent haunting by a vampire rat.
Caricatures are calling out your name, claiming now to be your closest friends.
Glancing ever fearful, at the ticking clock, fails to slow the march of time upon its relentless path.

The deal is signed.
The Book of Wisdom written.
Mustard gas and a hint of disease are invited to the reception.
Giving even the faintest hope, the audience may be smitten.

Urged to read a quote or two, as the latest guru on the block.
You oblige the crowd with bilge, from chapters amongst your current stock.

You begin reluctantly with a sigh——-

“Admit your true identity only when the time is right.
Do it carefully, not while you’re still young.
It is better to have a real job.
Between love and despair lie a thousand choices.”

Polite applause follows.
You try another ——-

“In the house of death, no one calls your name except one.
Hopefully you have previously made the correct choice for your desired destination.”

One person claps enthusiastically, stopping abruptly when realizing they are alone.
You continue sensing you are having the desired effect ——

“If a mouse, or something, gnaws inside the wall,
It maybe an exception to Darwin’s evolutionary theories lurking there.
A mutant monster never seen before.
That’s no reason to jump on the bandwagon for
The birth of perfect children.”

Complete silence follows. You hurriedly leave, much relieved.

The sound of the ocean and the roar of the crowd ought to be illegal anyway.
The passion is more than you can bear.
Sleep would be a welcome relief, as the screams of death grow ever louder.

Obsolete software packages,
Blow across your cheeks,
As you begin to dream of a world, that is at least one up on this.

Reciting famous literary cliché’s,
Maybe the first hint that something odd is happening.

However ——

Rubenesque ladies,
With glistening skin,
Eat until fall.
Maybe they’re Sumo wrestlers after all.

Hardly Himself 2002