I am

I am death, the dull hull of the sunken ship,
old bones bumping on the bottom.
I am consciousness, too, raw and unnerving;
conscious consternation, fabrication of fornication:
"How dare you?" he asks.
"I fucked the bitch, too!" I reply.
I am alive, the burning fire of desire,
the bare white knuckles that strive to deprive;
and I am the piss, the puss, the poison
of the long straight arrow of hate aimed right at your eye.
While seeking forgiveness of sin,
I condemn the innocent to death;
while drunk on wine and reeling,
I set the guilty free.
I am the epitome of hypocrisy unapologeic.
I am light luminous, speech voluminous
—and meaning totally devoid.
I am the final flicker of the lamp that cracked,
damp, dumb, numb.
One moment I am aglow, eyes blazing;
the next, dead, eyes glazing.
I am the Phoenix unable to rise from the ashes;
the penis finis, now limp and lazing
after prolonged longing and lust;
the little clitoris that can't,
insensitive to Romeo's fumbling fingers;
the nipples gone flat and soft as jelly
on their fleshy mountain tops.
I am the rust on the old sword,
the bloody rags of rage and war.
I am what is, what was, what will be.
I am the past tense of the present,
the present tense of the past,
the future cancelled,
and the dangling participle of what might have been.
But don't expect a refund, dude!
Your life is as pointless as mine.
It wouldn't make a difference!
I am nothing at all, nothing:
the spot on the wall, the spit in the hall,
that is seen when you look in my direction,
because I am no longer there.
I am contradiction, the current rendition of all things trivial,
a limited edition of small truths and big lies ...
I am, I am—nearly—
everyone you meet these days!
—By Louis Martin