TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // Solitude. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air;
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go;
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all;
There are none to decline your nectar’d wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a large and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.

by ELLA WHEELER WILCOX (1855-1919)
Public Domain Poetry

seeds for your pocket

o demon face
may you reach the end of yourself
so that you will know
you will know that no one had to die

your lies have led to a thousand blooms
set alight in the silence
your crimes have made them feel too much
everything and nothing

the bodies you’ve threshed underfoot
are the seeds you’ve sown of your destruction
their scarlet heads now reach and sway
freedom cries scattered to the wind

and the wind remove all trace of you
hie thee into damnable night
your brutal answers went unquestioned
now circling back to haunt you

o barrel chest
may you reach the end of your hollow self
you know that none had to die
you fucking know

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let it rain

have you dared to declaim with your true face
have you seen how they inward flinch
have they made a monster of the hole in you

have you longed for truest validation
have their eyes doth pummelled your face to tears
have you hidden your tears under veil of rain

if only this was a happy song
if only we could fill our lungs again
if only for the air ‘tween the drops of rain

have you pulled truer weeds from the broken earth
have you doth counted and more so for praying
have you monstered after the four-leaf clover

have you truly known that you never belonged here
have you paid your respects to friend grief again
have you layed yourself down in the face of pain

if only this was a happy song
if only we could feel our lungs again
if only for the air ‘tween the drops of pain

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chrysalis soul

how could one man
fill so much glorious space
with anything of consequence
i’m just a man

much rather be someone else
and somewhere i do not belong
than here like this
feeling my feet itching again

maybe someday this pain will be useful
maybe someday i’ll wish there was more
when i close my eyes for the last time
on the inhumanity of man

i live in a world of ghosts made of string
where capricious gods are the puppeteers
and i’ll hang myself from this vile paradigm
before it stiffs the ghost in me

i don’t need no special favour
just need to be anywhere but me
don’t need no whistling saviour
to save me from being a man
there’s no scribble to my quaver
just need to be anyone but here
don’t need no whistling saviour
i’m just one man

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penal revenant of the tellestian age

imprisoned, prowling the floor of my mind
stumbling upon the bones of enigma
i’m slathered with stale plastic wrap
stamped with their foul expiry dates

my flesh, a slab of drab rump steak
it is but merely a showcase for
that stoned butcher with the rusty knife
who’s ready to make the final cut

my zombie heart says, “amen”
but they all say, “no, so be it”
my limbs emboldened beyond the cage
like dreams, their grasp is forced back in

imprisoned, prowling the floor of my mind
tumbling over the stones of stigma
my paunch splits wide, a bottomless trap
and i’m falling right there through red-hot grates

my guts are raw from crying inside
from teardrops frizzling away all hope
a burnt out skin chafed by verities
i’m oozing pus, bleeding oneness out

my slavish soul fronts a lynching bee
my cries for mercy thread between blank brows
only mocking echoes dare answer me
and resort to rend free has been abandoned by thee

imprisoned, prowling the floor of my mind
fumbling within the groans of maligna
i’m getting a wanton, roundhouse slap
from the final set of closing gates

© All rights reserved 2017