Kaptain's Blog

frustration is a dagger with its point awaiting to pierce the throat of reason

how does a blind man see a naked woman?

he laid next to his wife
and draped a leg over her
he touched her hair
smelled its perfume on his fingers
drew in breath
and smiled, inside

from outside, quite close
came the sound of gunfire

he clutched her as tightly as he could
with all the strength he had

the point of no return
became the point from where he returned,
because he refused it

he had been driven there
by forces, unnatural and dark

there was cacophony everywhere
and pain

but when he looked about
he saw also there was love
which, after all, filled his own heart

he no longer minded
those unreturned looks
that laughed
and marked him down a fool

and he grew strong again

the rope caught his face as it fell,
which he thought cruel

he grabbed at it but
it was slippery and his grip was weak

he was tired, cold and wet, after all

somehow he managed
to coil it around his waist
and did nothing more –
he was unable, even, to wait

and then the light appeared
and he could hear cheers
as the rescuers, good people
hauled him up
and out of the well

imagine if your name was “Pig”
and you chose it
Pig is a word
now it’s your name
you chose it
it was by design
i have friends
and/or acquaintances
called
Tree
Circle
Milk
too

five fingers
five true loves
five people you meet along the way who are five true friends
five senses
five milligrams of heroin
five lines above

YOU FUCKING CUNT I’M GOING TO PRICK OUT YOUR EYES WITH THE BLUNT END OF A CHAIRLEG

SLOWLY

why was i born
why was i born
see, if i was going to be born
and someone told me before
i would’ve chosen to be
a pig
i could’ve nosed around
in my own excrement
and that of others
there’d be no mirrors
(that i could see, anyway)
and quite unknowingly
i’d have been happy
and gone about my business
without pretending
i was something else

he saw what was coming
and smiled wanly

magnificent, brave man

then upchucked a puddle
of what first responders
would later, in code,
call “coffee”
(and, forgetting themselves momentarily,
“A massive internal bleed, probably”).

he asked his son to sit him upright
but his discomfort would not lessen
his wife, below,
squawked into the hallway phone
distracting herself, denying

a rare curse left his lips, reluctantly:
“bastard,” he said

then keeled over
to the right,
robbed of his dignity,
still clutching a bucket
part filled with coffee
and was gone