Outside In

He might just take a club to it,
But what exactly would that prove
Besides the obvious,
The unclouded and the rough, unvarnished
Image of bashed in skulls
Broken and bloody
And full of violence and emotion?

Orgasmic, I’m sure,
But ultimately futile
And oh so weak.

You bang your head against the wall
To what end?
A bloody forehead, some cracked plaster,
But there’s still a wall there
Mocking you and your impotence.

Were you sitting on my side of this rickety old fence
I’m certain you’d laughing too.
You aren’t though,
Are you?

And that is what’s so sad.

But please forgive my Olympian nature,
My distance, my what have you.
My cynicism is well earned, I assure you.

I’ve been there, club in hand, swinging at the ghosts of my enemies
Braining the shadows of their ego.
There’s a pleasure in that darkness
That can be hard to find
In these depressingly civilized times.

So have it,
And please ignore my smile.
It’s not you,
It’s me

And my memory
Projecting ghosts onto the living,
Adding distinct color to these dreadful shades of grey.