Lost Journals

Someone asked me about this poem recently. I'd read as a featured poet a few years ago. It has seen many, many revisions. It started as a rant when I was an agnostic. Today, I refuse to edit out the parts about fate and God because I believe poems should remain true to the moment they were written. Although I'm no longer an agnostic, it seems a good time to publish again.

Languidly mounted upon human criticism she sits,
Chaos and order dancing, she screams locked in madness.
Masquerades of naked dramas fill her nights,
By day she plays with the stars.
Spitting sputtering spewing she breaks her promises.
She curls up around your loins leaving you screaming: more!
Fate you are a wretched whore.

Destiny has not been a lover nor a friend.
She has beaten me until I have cursed her name:
Sorrowful screams in the dead of the night.
This life is not meant for me.
Inner strife, pent up rage, rage, rage…
I am the casualty in this war.
Fate you are a wretched whore.

There she is mumbling nonsense about beauty.
Can there be truth?
Only when someone is in your thighs;
Fortune is not to be known by any virgin.
It only comes in murmurs that feel like lost dreams.
For you delusions there is no cure.
Fate you are a wretched whore.

Take me for I am only a weak heart and soul.
I have bared myself raw and naked under your heavy lipstick.
You love me, rob me and leave me.
Your cigarette, whiskey ruined voice rattles me.
Warless nights and passionless days lay scattered before me,
In such a disarray I cannot ignore.
Fate you are a wretched whore.

Destiny has cast me out of her graces.
She has thrown me out of her bed without a blanket.
The bitch has ripped my dying lover from my arms.
Fate has eluded me down back alleys.
Faith has damned me for my place in her arms.
God is no longer a saviour.
Fate you are a wretched whore.