aren’t you melodramatic
a shish kebab meant for royalty
sausages for the public
one man’s meat…
and then the convenient martyred victim searching for pathos in a world made for Oedipus as the essence of your life slips from your control and time slides pass the allotment of chance
allowing the impetus to drain, the dreams to fade and the self pity to devour the ill fortunes of your half-baked hell, like a buzzard tears at a skunk that has been hit by mankind some two hours earlier while crossing the yellow line of his life
self inflicted pain
escorting experiences
just a numbing sensation
in a cool breeze
– Chris George
January 1981
