. . . old habits die hard
they crawled across his bare shoulders and throat and into his beard like a hairy spider
hes bound tightly
he has to endure it
he hears more
than ever he thought he would
as the words begin
he tries to humour himself:
nuns
are tough to kill off so gawddamn
selfless hard to find
anything of self
to inflict lethally
it
fails
Old Habits are
conspiratorial and liars
they dont ever die
we die first and take them over
the edge into our graves kickin and screamin
those handfuls of dirt mourners
toss in after us graveside choke their miserable voices in
their agape throats
Faulkner - as
usual -
said it best: “The past is not
dead, it is not even past.”
and by his thoughtful reckoning
relaxed stroking his beard
running the backs of his
knuckles on its stiff whiskers
the line was either the Reason
or the Excuse
or each a smokescreen to hide behind
obscuring the true answer
why do you drink somuch
why are you sucha bitch
why are you sobent on killing
yourself
why are you a prick
they eat the lines like a
canapés or hors d'oeuvres a martini olive
off a toothpick or mojito
strands of muddled mint
enough to fill their mouths and chew
impolite to speak around
but not enough for sustenance
eyes blink or eyes are averted and
the Moment is lost in ones ears
old habits die hard
and dont hold an echo sound like
a flat coin dully fallen in soft earth
reprieved
the fictions will continue until
the next brief intersection
why do you have to be like that
. . .
1124, Wednesday,
14 8. 13
