Wet Pants in an Ashtray

Sickening sickness
drags him down in the cold
warmth of his old stiff body
as his passive rebellious youthfulness
sinks into the still moving sands
of his chair.

On the sides where his hands
lay on arms still still and stale,
His darkened mournful eyes pondering,
tell the tale of the mournful morning
at midnight.

made of the dark room,
the warm worn crimson chair
and the grey white window
from which the young man stares
at the rain.

He waits for the Raven,
But no Raven comes.

His youthful wrinkled eyes,
still and stale, tell the tale
of how nothing happened
on that mournful morning.

he strokes his dick,
led astray on a tray
of comfortable discomfort,
he heads towards the ashtray
in which they laid his bed.

The voices in his head are long gone.
There lays his bed,
He runs and runs to the ashtray,
It is HE who laid his bed,
The characters in his head
are long gone,
There’s no one to converse with,
He strokes his dick more heavily
and rapidly in verse,
He creates an audience
but there’s no play to commerce,
He strokes his dick
he’s finally involved in something.

He strokes his dick

it’s a conversation

with the Angels

he’s lying to himself

with the night

he’s lying to himself

with the dark shadowy lights

he’s lying to himself

with silence

he’s lying, he’s lying,

with himself

he’s lying with himself,
he’s lying –there’s no conversation.


He sits still still and stale,
The morning has gotten pale,
From blue-grey to yellow clay he saw it,
But he saw nothing; he lay
staring at the ceiling
in the trance of his wet pants.

Author: Yazbeck


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