Adam’s Lament

He lives his life in quiet desperation;
Or so it’s said.

He makes no difference in his diffident indifference-
coasting in a callow coterie of drones –
unmanned, unmade,
afloat within his murder –
A colony of bombs, a cluster
fuck it.

Boiling in an apathetic fervor,
he’s benefitted but forgotten
on the ash-heap of mankind’s empty memory –
stolid, steady, badging through the years.
Every day, another day
used-up and spent.

Neither flashy nor showy
(dumpy, dopey dupe),
he’s middle-aged, over-weight, middle-class, over-wrought,
a laughing-stock within the shitted shoots,
fodder for the butcher’s slaughterhouse.

He’s honored with the dregs of juvenile attention,
offal from the shapely ass of Jesus’ luscious bitch
who straddles him with promises of heaven’s cream;
stretching him upon her pillowed rack,
she mounts and rides him to the dust
and milks him dry
to die
within her pungent flood.

Drowned in tortured dreams,
he lives to die within his mind –
his hell.

Rotting in his purgatorial palace,
the sap finds solace in the sullen dreams
of darkness’ kiss –
alone within his paradise.

Quiet desperation?
He mourns,
he weeps,
he burns with silent rage

and aches for bleeding grace.

(featured image source)


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