Chris G. Vaillancourt

(April 5,1959 / Canada)

Mood, Melancholy, and Maybe


From underwear falls public hair, tossed
in whimsical frenzy down
.......................an underground sewer.
We twirl there, perfectly unhappy.
Attacking fallen leaves as if
......................the end result
...........would produce world peace.

You talked at me.
Talked and talked and talked
until I began to think
my ears would implode.
....................You're always talking, yapping
.....................your views across
......................the air as if what you had
.......................to share was somehow important.

Maybe it is? To someone else it
might be of some scant interest,
but for me, you bore the living shit
out of me.

I falter in my steps, never sure of
which rung of the ladder will break next.
Hoping that bleach and water
will continue to erase nicotine stained thoughts.
........................It's too easy, you see, to enter
.........................pity into the seizures of the dawn.
...................... or night, either way or which-ever
........................comes first, I'll be still carrying

the mortar and bricks of submission.
Shackled like a nigger slave
back in the days of plantations and lost causes.

Why do you follow me still? Why do you
chitter and chatter like a fucking snake
waiting for the rat to fall across your lap?
.................Who are you?
...................What are you?
......................Why does your voice never end?

You frown indulgently at me.
Telling me the same boring bullshit
you've been foaming since
I was able to formulate opinions.

Apparently mine are all wrong, and of course,
yours are not. So scream on savage.
.....Yell your obscene implications
......and hurl your protests loud
.......like jerked off teenagers
..............looking for a towel.

Somehow I find that thinking of Levi jacket's and
.............................high school days
are the only things I have left to offer.
................Talk on, mysterious vocals.
..................Remember that I walked
...................like a dripping tap that no-one
......................has bothered to repair.

From underwear falls public hair, tossed
in whimsical frenzy down
.................an underground sewer.
We twirl there, perfectly unhappy.
Attacking fallen leaves as if
......................... the end result
.................would produce world peace.

Submitted: Saturday, March 22, 2014
Edited: Monday, March 24, 2014

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  • Poetheart Morgan (5/8/2014 4:03:00 PM)

    And maybe some hope Poet? ? ? ? A way to be free and happy....I am very optimistic...always.... So, so urgent, so poignant....Bravo Poet.... (Report) Reply

  • Susan Lacovara (3/23/2014 6:15:00 PM)

    Quite an interesting write, filled with the shout of honesty....a spilled cup of what a soul longs to scream....I found it impossible to ignore....I love discovering something obviously written from outside the box... you seem to have ripped the lid right off! PEACE (Report) Reply

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