I am trapped in the dementia of this place
that has never been imbued with the flavor of childhood .
But it still haunts me like a family excommunication .
I am the skin of walls oozing the madhouse ...
The dustbin of time has settled on the mummies
in the dying room ,frozen in front of the TV screen
where an announcer declares that the program
has been briefly interrupted for eternity ...
Often ,I had dates with chicks who had run away
from the crypt ,hiding beneath the shroud
that concealed shameful nights of ecstasy ...
The week was marked by silence .
sunday was chicken and fries .
The strangler never forgets those moment of grace
when an honorable calling is forged ...
What a wonderful life ! and I was in love with Sandy Shaw...
Well-mannered ghosts still put on their slippers at the entrance
to convince themselves the're still alive .
I remember that good dog who died from living too long .
we never pay attention to our fellow travelers !
0r we sometimes water them absentmindedly ...
Mom hanged herself in the attic .
That sunday the chicken tasted like arsenic ...
Sometimes I join the ectoplasms who are waiting
for the next part of the program ...
I take off my shoes at the entrance and pet the good dog .
wherever you stay or always return to ,
that is where hell lies ...
I wonder who set fire to that damn hole ?
And i'm still in love with Sandy shaw...
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Author:
lorenz (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: July 24th, 2026 10:56
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 8
- Users favorite of this poem: Ellen Marsell, Cheeky Missy, Tristan Robert Lange
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Comments4
He becomes the keeper of his own hell, its last ghost and only witness. Only a part of his soul is able, from time to time, to leave that place and tell us its story. A brilliant psychological poem.
The narrator is walking on a string between two worlds !
Perhaps poetry is what keeps him from falling.
Existential surrealism put in a pipe bender and worshiped as a god. Love it
a liturgy for the dead who still think they're alive ! Let's them to their illusions ...
What about the living that think they are dead
I've already adressed the topic previously ...
Excuse my poor memory too many poems the cloud is full
You adroitly pull off rendering the ghastly reality whose macabre essence clings like foundling mud ever does, with a lofty touch, that conclusion a killer. My, I do love how well you penned this! Superb imagery with a damning poignancy. Thank you so very much for sharing.
Words left unspoken beneath the tyranny of domestic cuisine...
Lorenz, this hit me hard...dark, surreal, and brutally sad, yet threaded with the kind of humor that makes the horror feel even sharper. What a powerful poem, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
My poem is not a hymn to death.Its an accusation against counterfeit life...
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