when 3 turns to 4.
the best of times
are revisiteds
as I stroll the streets
again
past the seedy bars
I once caroused
and the needle infected back allies
where my friends and I
played 'fight club'
with only our guts
and a case of beer
to dull the pain.
where Lynne bared her breasts
and I showed off
my lonely cock
to the owners of the karaoke bar
after they threw us out
for getting too drunk and rowdy.
yet,
as the years have faded
those best of times
traveled on
to better, more reliable places
and my mind
fills with thoughts
of sorrow
as I relive the pleasures
this growing city has taken away
from me.
so,
while my cigarette turns to ash
I write this down
for all you drifters and dreamers
of my past life
who I will probably forget
and disregard
before my last beer refuses to stay cold.
Juliet never tortured Romeo like this.
she met me
in the hall
and released
some of her
hot gases
so stagnate
that my eyes
started to weep
and search
for a little
fresh air.
Juliet
never tortured Romeo
like this.
Cleopatra
never gave Caesar
a dutch oven
as he slept.
why must I suffer
the consequences
of this old love
affair
and literally go blind?
private dreams.
she pulled her panties down
and I remembered what I came for:
lust-
the only thing I needed
in my lonely life.
I kissed her moistened lips
as we fell into the motion
and the mind
struggles to conceive of any one thing
that could compare to the moment-
she was everything I longed for.
her beauty
is melted into my mind:
her long curly hair
the darkness of her skin
the curves of her body that come alive.
- - - - - -
let me close my eyes
and dream again
of the one I love
and so dearly miss
the only love
that I look for, even now.
she's my light
the beacon
that calls me
from across the bay.
the moore castle.
it falls to the floor
as he grabs at his chest
the pain is greater
than anything he experienced before.
this is the final moments
of a dying man
but one is around to weep
nobody come to mourn him.
he lays in a quiet grave
becoming food for the carnivorous beetles
and invading worms.
the guilty party.
it's my fault again
it ever changes.
I am your scapegoat
your Judas-your martyr__
you woke up
in one of those moods-
those batshit crazy moods
where I am the culprit
in every little scheme
you conjure up in your mind.
then-
you wonder why I am
never home.
why I'm drinking with friends
at my favorite bar
instead of at the house with you
rubbing your back
and washing your toes.
you're insane to think
I am going to stand there
and let you torture me mentally
and physically
I do a good job of that
on my own.
the luxurious flame.
I would like to melt
into you
penetrate your nervous frame
and make a point
of watching the temperature rise.
you are my pyre.
the luxurious flame
that brings on my existence.
I explode into your shelter
and free myself
able to write again:
a lovely and sad form of poesy
for the fire that burns
intensely
inside the both of us.
Keith Wesley Combs
