Last Tuesday

I finished off a six-pack
I wish the titty bar wasn’t closed.
I would be there right now instead of sitting on my floor.
If I lived in the city I could at least pay for sex.
I am plagued by my own temptations.
I would rather not resort to watching pornography.
You do what you can to relieve yourself.
Forgive me for my sin.
I am a broken man.
Lusts glorious slave.
Maybe I will keep drinking and pass out drunk.
Maybe I will piss the bed!
I think I would rather just fall asleep.
So, I did.

Janus in Chains

It did not come by rats.
It did not come by soldiers.
It came with a warm handshake
And a “Bless you.” “Excuse me.”
It came with the swift hand of the state,
Filled with holes like swiss chiss.
And it came
On the wings of a bat,
In the luggage compartment of airbuses,
And down the corridors of mega-liners.
Leaving those who fear death the most
Staring back at themselves in mortalities mirror.
Youths avarice!
Vampiric draining!
Janus in chains!
The passing of time’s gears
Grind to a halt
All in the name of public health.
The men over the hill,
Locked in their stucco houses,
Have done nothing but take sandblasters to their own tombstones.
“Six months!
Six months!
I will trade your freedom for six more months!”
Cancelled shipments!
A kink in the supply chain!
The end to next day deliveries!
The siren’s song of mercantilism
Echoes along nostalgia’s catacombs.
Nurses and doctors
Put on minstrel shows
And bask in the glory
Of their newfound praises.
A hero’s calling;
Viewed through the lenses of binoculars;
Justified by the preservation
Of that which they have plenty!
Endless nights!
Days darkened by eyelids!
My reverse nine to five!
Poems written under warm white light!
And all because of a little cough.


This is an excerpt from Patrick Kilgore’s new poetry chapbook, Spectres of Saturn. You can purchase the book from Terror House Press here.