I’ve never got into monsters, spooks, and the likes
Life is hard enough without inventing such things.
Like being shot at over Korea, or the screeching tires
of your oldest sons’ last moments, the curses and screaming
rage of your father…these are monstrous enough
For this old man.
I never got into monsters, spooks, and the likes. Life is full enough of such things to live with the phantom fears of fictions. Shadows of trees, the screeching of tires, maledictions of screaming rage. Anxious regret and their slow plodding uncertainty.
No I have no need for monsters, spooks, and the likes—what I have seen is much worse. What I have seen is scarier, and real.
I’ve never got into monster, and I don’t understand why people would, life being intrinsic with fear, and rage, and uncertainty.
But if that’s what does it for you than I hold no drudge. I just don’t see the allure—I never got into monsters, spooks, and the likes.
She was quick with me twice,
And dismissive twice.
And so utterly confused, uncertain, and befuddled once
That all I could think to do was
Me? I’m jus dancin.
. These here are uncommon waters these here are things never encountered. These here are a sit of circumstances never encountered and never planned for. Here there be dragons and monsters and things unplanned and unanticipated. These here be crisis and discontent and blind stumbling down an ugly destructive path. These here be cold hearts. These here be mild interest and, again, self destruction. Hopes gone with the last beer with the last shot. These here be callous inconsideration and misguided dreams. Here be self-interest and unknowing hatred. Unknowing ill-regard. Unknowing non-friends but mostly blind disregard made manifest by the last clutching for meaning. Here there be the you that hurt me. Deliberately. Coldly. Menacing. In blurs. In quick cuts and mostly in ignorance. And delightful callous egocentric blasphemy and cold. The cold that cuts like paper and burns just as readily. Unseen by you, but felt by me, Here there be dragons.