Please Make it Stop!

© 2001 by Rob Krabbe, and Noon At Night Publications 

There are many poems, written in the midst of the darkness and the madness.  I’m never sure whether to post them.  But they are real, maybe more real than about anything else I write.  This poem, written in 2001, and others like it, when I read them now sometimes surprise me, give me a feeling of a dark nostalgia.  I don’t go to places like this very often any more, thank God.  I don’t remember writing this one, but I remember more, being in this place for what seemed like eternity each time.  And what seems like a very, very long time ago.   

Warning:  some adult language.

Gibberish, gibberish, makes

no slamming sense.

The words are come.

The words are go.

The patterns of sounds

squeezed into some uniform,

yet naked running through

the dark empty streets.

Dance and say,

fuck yourself, you fuck,

you, master of this castle,

plaster the mantel,

fish for men,

what is a mantel fish?

Watch and wonder,

blunderfully said, Fred,

but spread, and asunder

my words like thunder.

Lingual congruity?

no change

no annuity

standing

at a loss,

is the dead,

boss,

next to

my investment

lay the real cost.

So, bla, bla, bla,

the doctor says ah,

for a change

I stick things into him.

The last vestige

of dignity,

royalty, and

lay down to

rectal trembling,

and my head,

spitting open,

the bones separate,

there in cerebral tomes

the words of hope

I miss the most.

The ghost, I find

that my kind

sublime in my mind,

is in reality, just

a stupid rhyme

but it has a time

as in the empty lines

waits the demon,

like for an “e” ticket ride.

I’m screamin`

and scheme`n

you dogs and pigs,

you see and they

mate, and then what?

A dogpig?

What else?

The demons there

the boxes arrive,

the table scratched

the movers are high,

my head is so full,

god take it away,

fill it with hay, something

anything, any damned thing

that does not fucking think!