Clayton's Counterarguments

King David

Why the hell wouldn’t I eat mac and cheese?

A creamy blob of sunshine, the collaboration of

cheddar, parmesan, mozzarella, provolone

inciting a major meltdown in my mouth.

Steamed pasta wafting across my face,

Begging to be obliterated in an instant.

Because I’m a ‘fuck-off’, that’s why.

Upon consuming this delectable dinner

the notion of cleaning up after myself will

flee my mind faster than a peregrine falcon.

And King David will approach.

“My God, the sight of these dishes!

I fear you will attract fruit flies.”

With a critical glare I must glance away,

Shackles of shame constricting my conscience.

His head shaking at his request’s rejection,

negative energy radiates as I see anger accumulate.

He’s attacking me, punishing me with clenched fists,

Grasping my shirt he places me into a collar choke.

I refuse this to be my demise and resist with might.

With a final jolt, a concluding burst of power

I break out of it and submit him an arm bar.

Gasping for air he collapses on the couch.

“I’m gonna go pass out” and he’ll be gone

as quickly as he had first appeared.

The dishes will remain uncleansed with spite,

and fruit flies will rule the Brad House.

Remnants

Another forty gone and what’s to show for it?

A glass of steel reserved for the desperate,

underage and inevitably solitary,

Memory disheveled by the devil

ruthlessly swept away in the wake of

a tornado gusting in a furious circle.

A coating of black tar on the tongue,

Bitter bubbles gushing down the throat

gurgling in reactive anticipation of the

old english draft soon to pass within.

Another chilly night vaporized,

Gone with a glimpse of glass

adding to the heap in the closet,

Each like a glittering skull

dripping with its last droplet.

Summit Place

A quaint house on a quiet street

broken with abrupt blast –

cars, kids, screams, rapes, rocks, lawsuits, gardens, beers, tears –

a flimsy construction of lies

painted on fresh cut lumber.

The epicenter of evil

hidden by a façade of family,

of stability and warmth,

Of a home.

It traveled farther than any

who lived within, this house.

Each born unto it recognize

the battling odors of crisp cedar and  decaying sheetrock

as if still residing amongst it.

His sabbatical gave a chance,

the constructor was gone and

innocent faces could undo defacement.

But he returns,

the house poisoned once again.

Memories of reconstruction dissipate as he squelches them.         

He rots there, careening toward his end

as his residence does the same.

I hope he falls further

to the depths of Dante’s imagination,

ridding all of his filthy existence

riddled in pain and destruction

always with premise of the opposite.

Burn in hell; the house can be reborn.

Aight

Frivolous antics abound amongst my aura-

Underhand tosses and subsequent losses

Cleansed of stress to manifest rest; it’s the

Knifelike sharpness of contrast to daily grind.

Often bypassed by the custom of society

Freedom of obligations clears away obscurity,

Forging endless entertainments to allow this

Slip into the hot tub of bliss. Once in a while.

Presenting

What’s the stat for that,

a pensive voice posed.

Whittling stress marks in my clammy demeanor,

Purging the air of comfort like a medieval sickness

destined to afflict all, with a wave of peril.

Petrified I clamored to respond, 

grasping for refuge in my memory or

suitable bullshit to replace a vacuous gaze.

…462.

It appeased the inquirer,

returning to paperwork perhaps searching

for validity or fault, I’m unsure.

Could he tell I knew nothing?

That I abhor this horrid affair,

caring less only than the level of knowledge

I bear regarding this subject?

Surely I’m not opaque or fake.

I concluded and he spoke nothing.

Soundless warfare on my conscience,

urging me to unearth an epiphany and

alleviate my plaguing affliction, 

to discern enlightenment with entitlement.

Often the most valuable teachings are sans script,

built entirely on a pupil’s sense of recognition.

Taking my seat tacitly, I wondered if

this notion could last beyond the moment.

Where Nobody Can Hear

Tears falling in sheets she sobs

buried in her world of blackness,

trapped in a personal cavern

deep below the earth’s surface.

A cool glimpse of dim light

peeks through her fingers, but

makes the dark more apparent.

The walls splashed red confine her,

bleeding on the pure off-white ceiling,

emanating pain into her lonely grotto,

cloaking her with murky memories.

The thing he made hangs placid,

dripping on the floorboards

like a newly formed stalactite.

She trembles as the walls

begin to cave in around her

leaving the room empty,

Empty as his absence. 

Beauty Sleeping

Slipping through the window

Misting across her placid face,

A crisp breath of the night

Sighs from the moon’s waist.

She lays, quiescent-

Not a care lurking, yet

Never does it appear.

Nothing the eye has met.

What we don’t know is entombed,

Encapsulated below the banter

Aching to be free but it cannot be,

Til the wind came, made it stronger.

The breeze brings the change

To unearth her grave secrets.

She gave a voice to the voiceless,

And gave speech to the speechless.

A brick for the sick

That shit sits heavily
Like a minor key melody
Weighing in on my chest
Look at this, fuck the rest

Maybe one day I will see
That its over, I am free
But not likely to occur,
I am sure that you concur.

Damn it.