Losing a Lost Voice, Losing a Lost War, Lost, Lost, Lost

A poem about being walked over, walked into, and every form of walking walking walking in a variant that is passive, or does not directly involve you walking yourself

If I made you hotly angry and jolted you

With the thrill of hate hate hating me

I gave my voice to the insinuated boar of my dreams.

Thrice a thrump and I lose my fingers

Collecting to the ants like loose teeth and

Gum-less little sweeties grown par. 

A memory, a memory,

A silver suitor in my veins without my permission,

My unabashed rapist.

Bemused, he wonders the course of my 

Jangled altered body, judgement and comment takes 

A leap across the current my voice leaves. 

The thunder whistle of my phlegm,

A harsh growl between every word, 

And all is lost.

And the little indentations, the brutes in

My moose, f****t away like hot ash and

noose, fat little maggots.

The little dear crawls on it's savage knees,

Air vents do not touch the very best of it,

And Ganesh calls it home.

Calling prosperity! Prosperity! I smack my

Thighs to call a roof and the milk bottle 

Hour glass comes to night the gale.

Tails of fire and fairytales spite me at

Campfires and my peers hold 

Malice as their chalice, O brave one

And the hummingbird loses it's hum, thrum, 

And be's a bumble instead, 

Futile little veteran. You.

Dusting it's way through the labyrinth woe-be-gone,

A pseudonym as don't miss me, Miss Me!

Gone. Gone. Damn you, Gone.

She was on her hands and knees,

Writing beneath the torment,

Little sprite, subject to spite.

I dismiss you, hard worker. Spite spite spite you,

You little flea of prospect. It is just too too bad,

And much too time-be-gone.

Beckett would dismiss you fool, 

It wouldn't take half a minute for the curtain

To ask you to f**k off.

Ugly thing, full of lisp,

Full of ghost. Uncertainty amounts not

To a world that knows it's own name, O dim spark 

You damned flame, you crushed my

Knuckles when they tried, so I now lay flat

And vehicles drive me in.

The whorehouse doesn't want you,

Your moan does not entice us-- you rainbowed fool, be gone, 

Voice-less-Miss-tress.

A master comes to call his light

His knuckles flare, his oesophagus quivers

He leaves and I let him.

The little maid cries in her cellar of

Fortitude. She is sorry she did not

Cry earlier. Stupid f*****g mare.

And then I sleep, toothless and gaped

Wide open for the passer-by to gawp.

All is asleep upon the open-day.

Youth is granite on your countenance--

A kind of hazardous that took you in to spit you out,

Boding well and without.

It creeps up the spine of any old

Pimp now, crying help and will you help

Me. And laughed away, time and

Time and time and on. The stupid f*****g

Bimbo keeps knocking on doors and leaving

Fingernails in the mail

Calling Fenris, missing him, 

Who does hoola-hoop when who

Misses who? and other nonsense

Calls to her, avery to moss,

And the moat suppresses circulation 

And all is wrong, but the voice

Is loud and clear in a place

It could never be existential 

In ogre blood. 

Pixie little fair, you only little one

For me, I creep and descend to you,

Oh my titus Saint, 

I spat to you, hail, Ha-

Il. Spar on, filly of mess,

Spar on.

Author's Note

Honestly, I don't care. If you hate it, I'd prefer it. Preference or indifference mean nothing to me when a poem such as this reigns / rains. I wish.