July 2, 2019

Keith Kennedy: Feeling the Angst

Keith Kennedy: Feeling the Angst
Too Busy for Suicide  
I'm awfully sorry to be awful
It was the camera – you see it, in the corner
I was afraid that if I didn't fall in line
They'd make me wear a rose-colored shirt
They'd make me kill my family
So I said what they wanted to hear
I told them of your discretions, making sure
Not to elaborate too far, so they
Didn't find out what horrible things you've done
To my ass, in my mouth, while the others watched

They are sorry, too, for doing what they had to.  

When Pink was Heart 
I craved your body like a mind
No matter where the dead birds fell
I changed my course to walk behind
I stared at skin 'till I grew blind
  And     when
you      dressed
  I           felt
the       flames
  of         Hell
To watch your exit, so content
Was horror that I couldn't quell
To know your sweat, your devil-scent
Was to lose myself, trapped by the swell  
Signal With Your Mouth to Me  
My heart is akin
Come what may
To touching the skin
Day by day
And when your answer passes by
Is it not my right to cry?
Is it not my sin to shout?
When your angers pass you out?
And when the crimes of nature free
The poison of the lending lout
Turn your head, your mouth to me
Call me down from on my high
Is it not my game to lie?
Is it not my shame to doubt?
Is it not your ploy to pout?
And when the hearts of terror flee
The fear of futures turning out
Turn your head, your mouth to me  

Insomniacs like to prey on the undying
Like slaughtered dreams of scalped pseudo-dragons flying
Build your protections
Collect your acts of crying
Women like to dress up their dominant sections
As bulbous, reddened access points of discretion
Contained with your vice
Let them halve your erections
Many men will inquire once, but never twice
To taste a spoonful of pie, not yet the whole slice
Women like collars
Men prefer to act as mice
So what are you as you holler?
What calls one toward the soulless dollar?
Should you call her?
Will they maul her?
The Colors Collude  
The decision of validity has nothing but contempt for your eyes
These meager displays of vision are lost on the finer artisans
There are things far beneath your control, above your notice
They want nothing more than to hurt you, make you feel inadequate
But you must crouch and hurt your stiffened back to sink to
Their level – the motes and the dirt, the Cradle of Creation – is low
Easier to keep that back straight, and tidy the souls once you
            get home.

Keith Kennedy is a Pushcart and Rhysling nominee writing out of Vancouver. He’s recently handed bio-writing duties over to his wife, who is beautiful and still fits in her old jeans. Check out Keith on Twitter @rkkwriter, and at keithkennedy.weebly.com.

About theJack B. Rochester

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