Author: Max Meunier

I guess I’m an emotional masochist
because I always fuck everything up
far beyond the precipice
of merit propitious
 
Dare I say
it’s depressingly disconcerting
for it’s duly quite fervid
the ferocity with which I unfailingly inflict
this inbound bondage

I have deemed a living hell upon myself
whose reins I shall never relinquish

Nor shall I ever dispel
the curse that these verses disperse
on my pithless personage  

I search for the dirge
that might deign to divulge
my divergent urges
surging to ravage my visage
with savage compulsion
and vague supposition  

Vulgar and vile these vices I vaunt
when enveloped in venting 
with vanity’s wont

As I saunter hauntingly
to a daunting demise 

I witness this witless world
through wistful windows of time
since rescinded sans residual reticence
of rote compliance
that readily dotes on my amative recalcitrance  

To further articulate this artless affliction 
so to properly parse the veil of this valse 
lacking prevalent cause
prudent pause must be given
to parlay the amplitude of dispossession
so that I mayhap, per se
gain from said deprivation  

With all best intentions
mentioned ad infinitum
impressed upon god’s greatest audience of none  

Yet somehow I find
that the soul of my mind
ever shuns me thus spurring
to run underground
just so that I may hide
from this hideous horror
whorled in writhing

Undermining my chances to shine
with such vibrancy confined to contrivance
in idle contradiction to idyllic ideals

Where no sound is present
to presage profound plights
of piteous people persistently perishing
garishly sinking into sentient pits
of sapient despair

And here I lay
hapless in hyporeactive states
hopeless to extend a helping hand
bearing the selflessness of our sole salvation

To solve any quarrels of lore’s requiem
as ennui quandaries of quietus quell
squeamish skin squandered  

Acclimatization to scandal and scourges
encouraging naught but a purging averred

Spurious inference evinced disingenuously
a word so misused it defines what is wincing

Thrust upon miasmic oceans of plasma
in plumes plotting schisms of ruinous rue

Sophists usurping
poised with dissemblance
in spite of supinely presented sound pleas 

At which point I ponder
to pander implore
that you please apprise me
what purpose this is for

Aside from assuaging an aging aplomb
ere appearing as pompous
as this pen’s pathetically impaired plies
of reasoning so paltry

Alas, I digress
for my state of distress
is distorting the functions
compressing my chest  

Lest I cease and desist
I shall cease to exist
but at least I know this much
is blissfully true:
I am fucked
and I cannot resist
this fool’s fate
of such languorous
and lasting lamenting libration

Intent on selling my soul
to the devil in reveries 
of such voracious dyspepsy
and lack of discretion
so disseminating degrading the ground
that I share with my fellow
formations of foul indignation interred  

In tombs of tempestuous vestibules
flailing in failure
so profound it resounds and reverberates
in sonorous echoes
that beckon our reckoning
in this armageddon that hails from charred skies

Rippling throughout our decrepit contortions
condemned to a cold crippling morphine drip
faintly gripping death’s sinewless hand
where we lie