Your Apocalypse Beckons

between love and hate is nothing but indifference
the self absorbed rotisserie of the soul.

now, never mind that cold, duplicitous, intent
of unctuous, aging, strap online cunts
busily lusting texts with networking kindred’s progeny.

no, your gig is spaced between football afternoons
and friday evening mixers
little ones clamoring about requiring something called love
that you heard about, once upon a time,
under a table after many Jacks on ice
from a soft voiced blur later moisturizing your face
with a slippery tentacled musky octopus grasping for your last breath
as if it already had an expiration date past due
followed by a treacherous dance of arbitrary agendas
while smearing on a coat of diamond back lip gloss.

your gradual submerging into that pot of boiling afterbirth
becomes the tendency to waste life during
weekday dream death and weekend whiplash
practicing high wire acts while unplugging the give a damn.

picture a streetwise instigator turned after work
paraplegic in piss stained polyester
puking guts into public walkways and crawling back in for a
 “I’ll have another, need one more for the ride home right?”

meanwhile back at the enabling chamber
little ones scream while soundly thrashed within an inch of their beauty
aging them like made for TV serial killers
by desperate, retentive, intoxicated compulsives with the,
life’s all about making me the one the world revolves around, rue
and exacting what’s due on the platinum checking account,
mortgaged, middle class, metal box, errand running,
bulls with balls calculatingly sliced off, who
then passively pacify into the flickering glimmer of the electronic soma.

some where in the distant foggy mental half life
was a throbbing heart laid on a chopping block
now ripe for 3 piece blood sucking negotiators stalking the college fund
and rotten nest egg while later rendezvousing with soul vacuums
doing their serpentine lip crawl under the neon hue.

after all the sparks fly and the trauma sets in, there’s only 20/20
and the long wait for the inevitable while you watch your
chip of the ol chopping block on America’s Most Wanted.

take heart confused one as at this point,
you’re looking at the catatonic state of dis union.
Of thee I sing.



Written by Scott Schoffstall
© January 18, 2011
all rights reserved
Poetic Sojourn


About Scott Schoffstall

I'm a relatively new poet having started in earnest 11/2010. I have sought the authentic and am still on that quest. I've diverged from the norm yet always reached for the universal. My interests were always beyond the here and now. Beyond the taste, touch, smell, hear, see. Where the mind and the spirit transcend the physical. They say perception is reality. Is it? Are we truly all there is? View all posts by Scott Schoffstall

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