The Lonely Heavy Metal Publicist Tries His Hand At Poetry

No birds.

No flowers.

No bees.

No moon.

No water,

moving or still.

Nothing growing.

Nothing stirring

in the shadows.

No history.

No satisfying toil

or contemplation of love.

No memories.

For no one.

Dreams of leaving,

I suppose. And the cold

shoulder, sure.

Or if interest,

so fervent as to

be suspect,

if not frightening.

Foul language,

prurience, impossible

demands, and ingratitude

from the B-Squad louts with

the ridiculous hair and

the mascara and the

leather pants, etc.

Mostly, though,

no thank you,

and worse.

Or no response,

no answer at all.

And all these photos

I cannot look at,

and these discs I

can’t listen to.

Every evening I

crawl from the

office through

the dog door,

a ruined man.