The Octogenarian Suicide Composition

The Octogenarian Suicide Composition

Lambasting your lover for
Only the nickels in someone’s jar. Those
Very scars still burn,
Every time my Bible opens.

Red-colored reactions to the
Hats I choose to wear,
Yearly, when I can erase the chalkboard of
Memories, I’ll feel better, more
Egocentric. Yes, the cold, mushy
Supper still tastes putrid, but

Welcome to the
Inner layers of Dante’s grief.
Torturously, you swim with the
Heavenly creatures, while I drown in the

Phlegethon. But brash
Innards, covered by a florescent
Tragedy, race away with
Your scintillating counterfeit watch.

Next time, you’ll lick the cobwebs,
Orbit the Wal-Mart, and
Wonder where all the Polaroids

Disappeared from, the one’s
You developed after a night of
“Boys will be boys”.

That damsel in the corner
Only speaks Volapuk and
Is best friends with a man
They call Jack Daniels, but
Not to his face, for fear of a
Barroom scuffle.

She’s been there for twelve
Years, but insists it’s only
Been seventeen and a half
Minutes.

Sure, I’ve visited the
Forlorn shacks, with my own
Sense of cardboard integrity, but I
Recommend waiting until you’ve
Matured, at least past your
Pre-pubescent thoughts in your
Post-pubescent being.

For now, go visit Maude.
Have some licorice and
Oatstraw tea, maybe a
Slice of ginger pie, the
Best kind of release from
Your day of kidnaping,
Tomfoolery, and Japanese paper folding.

I must wreck my ship and
Beach more flounder, possibly
Visit the wet nurse, before
My scar feeling, hat wearing,
Speech slurring, coffee sipping,
Dictator like days are over.