|||

Poetry by David Hay

Voiceless

D1
Good lord, this is a spineless wreck of a man.


Worrying but definitely comical


Filthy mouth, dirty tongue–
Shows an obvious lack of respect for hygiene


He is addled no doubt
by Freudian demons,


The mind must be a catalogue of perversity.


Dead by 25.


Look at his eyes they never sit still


To transcribe his delusions?


Oh dear


His privates are nothing to speak of,


The penis must always return
To its flaccid state


Stare at him until he
internalizes our judgement


Embarrassed by bodily functions.
Note it down.


Thoughts are equal to actions


Watch him, his internal monologue
has done a runner


Grub his brain and
Let him take his nourishment


Mark one of your cocktails
He’s looping anyway


Get a cigar ready and a segment of orange
Put Charlie Parker on
And put some vomit of Kerouac in his hands


His life will be ascribed a yearly value


My daughters are depending on him.


Mundane


If he wakes


The eart is still round


He feels no one loves him


He read too much Tolstoy when he was 18


Perversion comes naturally for pacifists.
His thoughts are not special


He is normal and the world
Mirrors every one of his fears


The base facts


19 and a nervous breakdown


25

D2


Doctor, he has the same facial expression as a worm,


Yes I agree, quite humorous




Quite repulsive, interesting but Repulsive


If the body symbolises impurity,


Exactly Doctor. Exactly.


Dead by 25.



Give him a crayon, primary coloured and suicide proof


Enter them,


Thumb his scars (a command)


His girlfriend–well women are always disappointed.


All men are weak.



Cum flows grey like freight trains



He is still ruled by sin


Such words birth psychotics




He’ll be too much of himself for the rest of the day.


Pornographic filth has overrun his nerves


There is no cure for being a man





His age is his main illness.



He is an investment,
I’d bet my house on it.


His death will be


And full of beige roses


Console him


It still charts gravity’s path around the sun


It is always the mother


Roosevelt was right.




His illness is common and speaks not of artistic depths


The key facts


The things he knows but can’t accept


Pathetic.

David Hay

Twitter: @arched_roadway

Up next Three prose poems by Tim Frank Selections from "Burden of Protection" by Cole Wheeler
Latest posts "I Have Never Made More than Seventy Five Dollars" by John Ling Tape World: The Six O'Clock Alarm S/T "Greetings from the Milky Way" by Bethany Cutkomp Three poems by Jordan Blanchard Suffer Well, Rejoice Better with Bruce Springsteen, Pt. II [Praise Music for a Secular Life] A Return to the Arbutus Record Show [Anything for a Weird Life] Two poems from CUTTING PROMOS by Josh Shepard "It Just Feels Good to be Honest" by Carson Jordan Two prose poems by Tim Frank Two poems by Jasper Kennedy Suffer Well, Rejoice Better with Bruce Springsteen, Pt. I [Praise Music for a Secular Life] In Praise of Black Celebration [Anything for a Weird Life] Two poems by Casey Harloe BRUISER ZINE 002: Cutting Promos by Josh Shepard "Hilarity" by Kyle E. Miller "Beyond the Iron Gate is a Garden" by David Hay Impressions of Disturbin' the Peace 2024: Day Two [Anything for a Weird Life] "Seaside Condoes of the Minneola Coast" by Travis Dahlke Your Descent into Violent Candy "So Below" by Lily Herman "Great Plains Sin-Eater Vs. Denimpup Gravelsinger" by Rifke Vatsaas "Pillows in Gomorrah" by Aqeel Parvez Impressions of Disturbin' The Peace 2024: Day One [Anything for a Weird Life] Two poems by C.R. Colby "The Big Light" by Joshua Vigil Distorted Transmissions: an Interview with Baltimore Painter Marybeth Chew Three poems by Joshua Calvano In Praise of ROCKER [Anything for a Weird Life] Return to Sender by Nam Hoang Tran An Essay on Morgenrede's Abuser by Z.H. Gill Three poems by kyrah gomes