diatribalArts

“[We are] children of nothing making gods from the voids in ourselves. Creating heavens from the seeds we were not patient enough to grow…”

Sad Poems: Suffocating in Cures
—the alcoholic poet

Warm, soil rich…nail staining, crevice penetrating
Hand cupped earth…it reeks of decadence. It will grow
Anything! Anything will grow here (wild, brambled-
Growth if there is no care). Long rows of furrows, great
Wrinkles like a consternated brow…or deep sulci
Framed by mounds of grey matter that cry for just
A little seed. It is not the seed or the earth
That matter (the mind yields up it’s strength to both
Thistles or thoughts, alike). It is the dirt-caking
Labor that produces. It is not the green growth; it
Is the knees and the hands loam-brown tinted that stain
The lips and teeth tannic-red; it is the yellow-
Brown tinged rag anointed with sweat and toiling oils
That savory sweet floods the nose like a burnt off’ring
To the Lord; it is the spilt blood that waters the
Cursed mind to move sapling thoughts through the surface toward
Harvest as first fruits to cast on a living altar.