Psycho Swine

Up all night. Nothing to show.
I feel the light receding
Knowledge folding back in on itself
The muse has gone fickle again
She’s left me to wallow alone in my misery
Truly a pig in shit

And if you ever met me, you’d agree
I’m not worth anyone’s time
You would understand instantly
The analogous swine self-referential is an apt one
In conversation I barely speak a word
Gibbering, shrill and grunting
All the poor thing can manage
Far more comfortable in the pen
Far more comfortable with pigley brethren

But every now and again I miss my thumbs
And with that realization a horrible pain comes
Remembering that I used to be a man
And I can’t go back again
I can’t go back again
Because once the hips have adapted
I can’t stand up again
No more two-legged traipses
My fingers have calcified and fused
My hands, they are hooves

I’m a garbage eater
Infected by the shit-eating-grin sickness
The Pigley Disease
I’m a squealing, deformed, man-pig monster
Just lock me in my room
Just shield me from the pain
I can’t bear the thought
I can’t bear the memories
Of the long-lost days
When conversation was possible
When turning doorknobs wasn’t a far-fetched pipe dream
When I didn’t fall to pieces every time I met someone new

But I’m just a christmas dinner
Dreaming I could talk to you
Whether Bodhisattva wise-man guru
or Rockstar-mentor.
Man!
I wish I could just talk to you
But that would require us both to be human
And I’m just a tongueless, brainless quadruped when I get anywhere near you.

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About Moly

Average, boring, self-involved human. Twitter: @CultOfCocktails Facebook: facebook.com/MolyTov
This entry was posted in Poetry, Written, Written Work and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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