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Dysfunctional poetry 102.., p.1
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       Dysfunctional Poetry 102 for Bedtime Reading, p.1

           Phil Cross
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Dysfunctional Poetry 102 for Bedtime Reading
Dysfunctional Poetry 102

  for Bedtime Reading

  by P. C. Cross

  Copyright © 2012 by P.C.Cross

  Any likeness herein to persons, living or dead, is purely hypothetical.

  Intended as an easy read, no matter age, gender, social status, or mental condition.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and not to be resold or given away to other people.

  Also by this author:

  Summer Job ISBN 9780595509218

  Grandma Was a Bag Lady ISBN 9781301445448

  Murder, Werewolves, and Ghosts ISBN 9781301780198

  Dysfunctional Poetry 101 for Bedtime Reading ISBN 9781301829767

  Dysfunctional Poetry 102

  for Bedtime Reading

  A Curtain Call In Their Names

  Give thanks to Gods for wars,

  and for what they have done

  to keep the populace under the gun.

  If not for competing Gods and genocide too

  there would be less space today for me and you.

  Holy wars in Their names have been fought.

  But if for Their glory–they have been for naught.

  But perhaps glory has not been the intent at all;

  but instead, to herald a curtain call.

  A Glimpse Beyond

  Some say they have seen the other side.

  On the verge of death they have experienced the event,

  claiming it not to be hallucinatory in extent.

  But so too, do those in asylums claim revelations of similar ilk;

  yet, they are cloistered away in rebuke.

  Perhaps such visions are conjured by the mind

  from memories that lie sublime

  just waiting for the time

  to make dramatic appearance—

  when garbed in robes and shrouds,

  they will emerge from beyond the clouds.

  A Hospital Stay

  Corridors stark, dispassionate, and cold,

  flanked with doors—open, shut, or ajar—

  to rooms where patients are on hold,

  awaiting their prognosis to be told.

  But whether cured or not,

  all will be let go one day;

  either as a dis-spirited body,

  or to return on another day—

  more often than not—

  for a similar stay.

  And in those rooms left behind

  are often flowers meant to cheer;

  but having been deprived of life support,

  now droop and leer.

  But they too, are destined to depart—

  without ceremony—in a garbage cart.

  A Rose is a Rose

  You can tell by your nose

  that a rose is a rose.

  Other things also by smell:

  plants, animals, and humans as well.

  To see and touch

  may also give you a clue

  so that whatever it is

  becomes known to you.

  And so you learn as you progress

  from child on through adulthood

  by learning from those who know.

  Also, you learn on your own

  as if each is a new adventure:

  whether simple and sound,

  or riskily profound.

  So that when encountered again

  you know it is genuine:

  retrieved from memory.

  And so it is, that in such cases

  where tangibles are self evident,

  knowing comes easily

  through smell, see, and touch.

  But how trivial all these seem

  in contrast to that intangible world

  where life and living is the thing;

  where love and hate, and in between,

  are the things that really mean.

  A State of Mind

  In youth, with vacant mind,

  I was sometimes asked,

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Oh nothing,” I would say.

  Now in senility, with vacant look,

  when asked that question again,

  “Oh nothing,” I would say—

  Fettered and coagulated in disarray.

  A Walk in the Rain

  A walk in the rain

  to wash your mind

  to cleanse your soul

  to absorb the pelting downpour

  as if being baptized

  But acid rain it’s called

  so that even the heavens are poisoned

  crying to be cleansed

  spitting back to man

  what was sent up disgracefully

  pelting, pelting, on your head

  Abnormal Me

  They give me pills to quiet me—

  so think to set me free.

  Doctors and psychiatrists in a row.

  Uncles, aunties, grandparents too;

  all fantasizing they are in the know.

  Me within, they from without.

  Not a clue among them

  knowing what I am—

  am really about.

  So it is I am caught in between,

  lost and lonely in between,

  refusing to be turned

  into a human bean.

  Across the Desert

  I’m a lifetime into the desert on a trek once a lark,

  but since has become dreadfully stark.

  The mountains I seek lie dead ahead.

  Now in better view, they maintain their mystique,

  and have allayed my fears of them being bleak.

  I am almost out of hope and it is as hot as Hell,

  but from the mountains I hear a distant bell

  that spurs me onward those last few miles

  to escape the ghosts from which I flee—

  that loom up around me menacingly.

  They tug at me to discourage my flight,

  as bogeymen—whether during day or night.

  It seems to me I have been here before;

  but not quite, to where I can shut the door—

  on my addiction—

  for ever more.

  An Autumn Morning

  The sun looked old.

  The breeze was brisk.

  The dawn was cold,

  putting tender shoots at risk.

  Puffs of clouds fleeted by;

  as if on a mission across the sky.

  Crystallized dew sequined the ground,

  as though fragments of stars—

  now earthbound.

  And as the sun rose on high

  it bid those earthbound crystals

  to say their good bye—

  to become gleaming pearls,

  melding with air or ground—

  to quietly depart, without a sound.

  As Black, As Black Could Be

  They perch

  on the stark arms of a gaunt tree,

  on a raw winter day,

  with leaves having fallen away.

  All black—

  as black could be.

  Inexorably there—

  perched still, as still could be.

  Perhaps they are harbingers

  of what is in store for me;

  all black—

  as black can be.

  Authoring as Such

  Think before you write.

  Then write without thinking.

  And in a blinking

  it will come about.

  Let it flow,

  have a full blow,

  let it take you,

  where it wants to go.

  Those who ponder looking yonder
  are likely to squander

  those moments when seat of the pants

  will get raves and rants.

  Do it! Do it!

  Night and day—

  for then you will shout, Hooray!

  and to Hell with what anyone else has to say.

  Before the Sun Came Up

  every morning

  mother was up

  before the sun came up

  stoking the furnace

  shoveling in coal

  before the sun came up

  to bring up the heat

  then off to the factory

  before the sun came up

  no cold floor

  to meet our feet

  when we got up

  Being Nonpartisan

  To place nation above all

  is to be addicted to no political party.

  To vote for the best candidate,

  to fight for the right cause,

  is to be true to your country.

  If everyone were to think this way

  what a grand democracy it would be,

  with all for one and one for all,

  right down to the lowest on the totem pole

  with nothing in mind but your country.

  Being On Welfare

  In conscience . . . how can I accept a handout.

  Food stamps . . . Medicaid . . . a way of life.

  To accept . . . to belly up . . . to crawl.

  To lose my self respect.

  I've paid my way all my life . . .

  No handouts accepted . . .

  To take them now. . .

  To acquiesce . . .

  To live a lie.

  There has to be a much better way . . .

  Let me work . . .give me a job . . .

  Not menial . . . nor fawning . . .

  If just enough to get by.

  If not . . . and only welfare remains . . .

  To feed, cloth, and provide . . .

  Then I must accept it . . .

  To survive, then die.

  Bolt the Door

  I must go out for a few minutes.

  Bolt the door after I go.

  Don’t open it for dear life’s sake.

  It might be someone we don’t know.

  Find something to do while I am gone.

  A game perhaps, but not TV.

  The shows are not the kind for you—

  but for those of base mentality.

  And stay away from blogging too—

  it’s only for those who have nothing to do.

  Born To Be Me

  Perhaps my mother

  had hoped for me

  to be like someone noteworthy.

  Happy I am though,

  not to have been named

  after some celebrity.

  For, as like a snow flake,

  I was born with my own identity.

  So then, who else but me

  could I ever hope to be.

  And so it is

  that throughout the day

  I can never be free

  from simply being me.

  But often at night,

  in spite of the real me,

  my other self

  goes on a spree.

  Sometimes to portray me

  as a celebrity.

  But even then

  I know it could never be me.

  So no matter when,

  no matter where,

  for good or bad,

  better or worse—

  as far as my mind can see—

  I will always be

  indelibly me.

  Caught in Between

  At times . . . . I feel . . . .

  I have two heads.

  One says this,

  the other says that.

  If only I had one more . . . .

  somewhere in between . . . .

  to show me the way,

  while keeping the other two at bay.

  Close Contact

  “Why did you put your finger there?” she objected.

  “I . . . I’m nearsighted and . . .

  I wanted to see if they are real,” he stammered.

  “And . . . ?” she wanted to know.

  “They’re great,” he beamed.

  “Next thing,” she said, with a sly grin,

  “you’ll be putting your ear in my mouth

  and telling me that you’re hard of hearing.”

  Dealing with the Beasts among Us

  Whether crouching on all fours, or walking upright,

  skulking with eyes ever keen,

  stalking with nostrils sniffling the air—

  anti social—in need of a lair.

  Ready to pounce on defenseless prey,

  to steal, to rape, even to kill.

  When caught, to cop a plea—

  to then regain their liberty.

  If imprisoned, soon to be set free,

  to resume carnal ways as before.

  But when exterminated—as it should be—

  so to desist forever—as it should be.

  Destitute and Dying in an Abandoned Slaughter House

  I served my country,

  but then went astray—

  getting lost in the shuffle.

  Perhaps my deck was stacked at birth.

  Perhaps I was dealt to be destitute.

  Now, as my kind refuses me sustenance

  with a morsel of food,

  or warmth from their fires;

  so I am here where no other creatures venture.

  Oh—how providential for me to find this place.

  The grease and slime from unfortunate animals

  caused to cease their existence while in their prime

  has accumulated like thatch in a lawn,

  and over time, will leave no trace

  of those who were slaughtered here without grace.

  Their fearful screaming once echoed throughout,

  as skulls were crushed and carcasses dismembered—

  to be digested, displayed, or put to civilized use.

  If only the mothers of those creatures could have known—

  would they have been so cruel to conceive?

  Perhaps to remain alive is the driving force—

  whether millenniums ago in caves,

  or today amidst seething technology—

  whether clothed in rotting leather or synthetic fabric—

  there is human flesh and bone beneath,

  harboring a growling belly and animated existence.

  I see a length of rope covered with filth and mold.

  Perhaps it is fitting I use it to cease this life of mine.

  I have nothing to write with, nor to write on,

  to leave a note to make them guilty or glad,

  to let them know what I did to myself, or they did to me.

  I will be put in a plastic bag tied at the top;

  and buried as though a victim of genocide—

  just another worthless bum whose mother has long since died,

  and whom I more than once denied with a show of affection

  that might have stemmed my tide.

  Does the Garment Make the Person

  Last week I purchased a hat at a second hand store.

  The next day on putting it on I set it at a jaunty angle—

  something I would not normally do;

  particularly since I have never been inclined to wear a hat.

  I could not help but feel that people had taken notice,

  as I found myself bidding them hello,

  while tipping the brim of my hat—

  neither of which I would be normally inclined to do.

  I wonder to whom that hat belonged before me,

  what kind of person were they.

  Had they purchased the hat new

  and accustomed it to being tipped?

  Or, had they obtained it as I had,

  from a second hand store,

; with it already set in its ways,

  as it had been before.

  At any rate, I have it now—

  to sooner die than let it go,

  for it has taken me out of my shell

  by putting me under its spell.

  Dreams and Promises Filed Away

  Keep a place in your mind

  for you to file away

  ear marked dreams and promises

  in conspicuous array.

  So throughout the night,

  to bemuse from dusk to early light,

  or on recall throughout the day,

  to honor dues you are obliged to pay.

  Every Beginning Has A Future

  Starting with a slap on the rump

  to fill the lungs and jump-start the brain,

  the world becomes your domain.

  What you do from then on is your affair.

  For it is left to you, through trying,

  to earn the right to joy or despair.


  From preacher’s silver-lips

  it comes gift wrapped,

  packaged air-tight,

  to all those in need.

  Both sinners and saints;

  for them all to take heed,

  with the gospel as basis,

  to exemplify the deed.

  Figments of My Imagination

  They are there because of me.

  You are there because of me.

  If not for me, they and you would not be.

  So then my universe is I—

  beholding them and you in my mind’s eye

  as figments of my imagination—until I die.

  For Goodness Sake

  And so they sit on benches,

  in rocking chairs,

  or propped up in bed;

  not yet, entirely quite brain dead.

  Tottering on the threshold,

  spellbound in the past,

  striving to revive memories

  while they still last.

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