The sun is still the same
That coward of a sun
Who hides behind its’ name
Who lurks behind grey clouds
While teasing from above
Its’ warmth so insincere
Its’ light so void of love
Its silly, shallow shine
Blinds me as I raise my head
And stare at its face
I force myself to smile
The Sun smiles coyly back
And blinded I look down
And think about my son
And try to keep it cool
And there far away
I know things are the same
Cars, kids and shabby trees
Façades of buildings, some ornate
Their dirty old courtyards
And smell of garbage, rot
Of strangers’ lives long lost
Of cursed unhappy fate
Discarded ice cream wrapper
A pool of urine in the corner
Abandoned doll, its blond head cracked open
(There are no brains inside)
Pigeons, those pesky rats with wings
Through a ground-floor window
An old wrinkled face stares at you
Amidst unneeded things
The window glass is dirty
A napping lazy cat
More trash and bottle caps
A bunch of kids run by
I leisurely walk
I envy them a lot
The sun is still above
Façades, inner courtyards, kids, cars
Discarded ice cream wrappers Discarded discount love
Aged whores and seedy bars
Of the most disreputable fame
It’s all the same but you’re not here
You’d never know that all is still the same
Tag: loss
Ping Pong
The ping pong ball bounces off the table
And flies definitely to a surprising height
Just to come down, get hurt and bounce again
Two players are showing off who’s able
To hit it at an angle in its flight
One strikes the ball, the thing’s insensitive to pain
It soars, it flies – quite like an alien spaceship
And travels through the air in an erratic motion
Outdoors is mayhem, thunder, heavy rain
While I would rather weep
But to weep here? What a crazy notion.
Another player gives the ball a blow
The spaceship dashes in its final thrust
Like rocket racket cuts air like a knife
But misses target, the ball flies low
It lands ignominiously to rest in dust
And I think wow, the ball’s exactly like my life
Is Someone There
Irrevocable persuasion of decay
Carnal putrescence is convincing
A temporal reminder of transience
In which we float toward the gate
Of the perfectly Unspeakable
From whence no one leaves
As dead leaves unceremoniously fall
Each fall on the unkempt alleyways of
Long abandoned park of our memory
And the neglected soul that’s been consigned
To dwell in a doghouse on the outskirts
Of this filthy squalid reservation
Howls in the thunderous silence
But haggard cynic bitch just holds her nose
And asks (in fact, she barks)
If she can just move in?
Since the doghouse is really vacant
It is long empty
And no one howls or begs for help:
Since there is no soul
Since there’s never been a soul
Roobit's Poetry Burrow 