Little Mister Full of Promise

Here are ten years spent searching for the antithesis of a life uselessly lent to Keurig machines brewing, daily traffic migrations idling, flat-screen TV’s streaming: Here are the screams of the mad-eyed peeling their scalps to let out the vacancies eating away at their brains. Here are the years spent shifting desks in dormitories where your youth went for a degree in death management: You found yourself crawling naked hysterical on the sidewalk well past sun-rise. You took the plunge and scrapped gum from the sidewalk, making yourself a lunch to carry downtown for a day staring listlessly at trees in the park, where you found, on a pedestal, a mirror looking down at you. Here are your dreams above the obscurity of the crowds – a PhD in philosophy, Mr. Little Camus you could change the world.

Here are the scars on your forehead the time you realized the ceramic-tile wall-corner could set free the termites tunneling hollow through your head. The termites hurt worse: unconsciousness was blissful. Then: three years later dragging your guts pornographically through the bars you realized the misfortune well-spent on bathsalts in a single boarded-up bedroom – the obscurity you feared was waiting right here beneath your piss-stained mattress. In a dumpster you found a desk and picked up reading the Existentialists where last you had left off – Mr. Little Camus you could change the world.

Here are the months you spent hitchhiking both coasts because the idea of getting lost beat finding your way through the mainstream maze that still makes no sense. Remember the time you cried, head to your mother’s chest, about the nihilism of this and that? It thundered true then and it thunders true now, with your shoestrings dangling through the holes in your soles. Is there lunch left in your pockets? Did you manage the time to find the ticket for your shuttle-ride to the stars. You are 35 and still longing for your home with your child and wife, and they are there, and they are waiting – for you to find they are the meaning.

Mr. Little Camus you would’ve changed the world.

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9 comments

  1. oldepunk · December 15

    Reblogged this on RamJet Poetry and commented:
    Another scathing poetic analysis from Mr. Hugh. Powerful

    Like

  2. oldepunk · December 15

    Mick, you never cease to amaze me. Powerful truth

    Like

  3. Sudden Denouement · December 15

    Reblogged this on Sudden Denouement Literary Collective and commented:
    Mick Hugh!

    Like

  4. Sudden Denouement · December 15

    So I am thinking that Mick is brilliant. That was fucking incredible. “Here are ten years spent searching for the antithesis of a life uselessly lent to Keurig machines brewing, daily traffic migrations idling, flat-screen TV’s streaming: Here are the screams of the mad-eyed peeling their scalps to let out the vacancies eating away at their brains.” You killed it again Mick!

    Like

  5. jac forsyth · December 15

    Damn, you’re good.

    Like

  6. Max Meunier · December 15

    so much to say. the fact that i love you will have to suffice for the time being. your voice is exquisite.

    Liked by 1 person

  7. meltingneuronstoink · December 16

    Splendidly awesome – love your wordplay man.

    Like

  8. Malicia Frost · December 17

    Incredible analysis, fantastic language. For some reason I reread the part : “dragging your guts pornographically through the bars” time after time. This is genius.

    Like

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