the last of days

We seek the darkness
thunderstorm funerals
muddy American flags
and trains off their tracks
I loved the picture of you out in the water
the wind made your hair wild
Nothing lasts…
I caught a blue glass-eyed wink
and a toothless grin
through the slow rising twirl of cigarette smoke and green flesh
I could smell the decay on your brain
It was a rainy day
when they put you in the ground.
Everything is open wounds now
and a bland thanksgiving dinner sucked through a straw
We forgot somehow, how to laugh
Could have been the slow drip of morphine
or the simple way our bones cracked.
Death dragged his heavy feet
as real life licked me
like a sandpaper tongue
Reminded me I am just the nameless meat
between the lion’s teeth
and we all die alone.
In black in white she sat
her legs demurely crossed
with her crooked cat eyed glasses
Tell me about your chaos lady,
the bloody slashes across your face
your dead baby sister
at the bottom of the outhouse.
It’s no wonder 
in the end we all go mad.
Would it be ok if I took this gloom
and weaved it into some hideous mask?
I will hide behind it for the rest of my days. 
H.M. Nolan 2015

Suffer.

She will,
only become,
aware of,
the severity,
in the things,
that she,
has insistently,
gone and done,
when she admits,
to the obvious shifts,
in the gazes of,
the Almighty Ones;
she will,
finally be outdone,
deep inside of,
the smoking barrel,
of a black market gun,
will she submit,
to the things,
that she’s let,
grow into beasts?
Or will,
the darkness,
finally,
swallow her,
in totality,
just to make,
itself regurgitate,
her existence,
repeatedly;
the day will come,
undoubtedly,
a day that makes,
today seem sweet,
like times of joy,
full of ease,
gobble them,
swallow them,
get down,
on your knees,
a day will come,
that defines suffering.

Sunrise and ADHD.

What does this morning’s dawning want to bring to me?
I could wash the wood floors, or climb a tall tree;
I could force myself to get my lab work done, finally;
Or I could sit on the beach and get stoned, like I want to be.

How’s about the library?
I can read my favorite books endlessly;
Surprise Sensei Han when I show up for karate;
Or just sit on my ass at my desk and write poetry.

Perhaps I will lead, in high speed – at the racetrack, again;
Or maybe shit some overpriced ammo down the drain;
I could always go hiking and get lost in the rain;
I’m partial to the idea of a tattoo gun’s special pain.

Today might be the day I dive for abalone;
Or decide to set my family of society finches free;
I just never know what’s in store for me;
With a mind so confined by its A.D.H.D.

Resting Place.

We slept without breaths –

underneath six feet of topsoil,

bathed in the heavy suffocation,

of loosely strung illumination –

another silent burial site’s

flimsy paper lantern lights,

among the beloved already beneath,

primordial soup of bones and teeth –

a headstone: too heavy,

a secret: too kept too steadily,

a lifetimes of anchors: dropped deep –

chained to my chains for all eternity,

a fate bound to a rabid Mammoth,

chained to both well-traveled,

and yellow, daisy-kicking feet,

we dreamt without darkness –

under the same stars,

that together, we once betrayed,

in a match’s quickly stricken,

enticing phosphoric display,

we struck fire to the paths –

from which we just had strayed,

never looked back, admittedly,

we ran until it all faded away,

into one, never-ending and exhausting –

ill-fated, suffocated final resting place.