Autopsy

aren’t you melodramatic

a shish kebab meant for royalty

sausages for the public

one man’s meat…

and then the convenient martyred victim searching for pathos in a world made for Oedipus as the essence of your life slips from your control and time slides pass the allotment of chance

allowing the impetus to drain, the dreams to fade and the self pity to devour the ill fortunes of your half-baked hell, like a buzzard tears at a skunk that has been hit by mankind some two hours earlier while crossing the yellow line of his life

self inflicted pain

escorting experiences

just a numbing sensation

in a cool breeze

 

– Chris George  

January 1981 

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