The Psychotic Reaper

April 8, 2012 by Tim Ruane 4 Comments

Psychotic black not grim reaper bearing down

On me (and you, too) like a black not grim reaper

World War II Japanese battleship, which

They did not make with tin the tsunami wave drowning all

Made of steel from good old Pittsburgh, when

I am a shaman all bent, but mutated now like the moon, which can do nothing

But reflect like a sexless Catholic priest. Deworm and reflect me,

Dear Indian gods, I am but 22. And there is Joe

The mania maniac at the relevant Sunday café calling me to his table for

Conversation about Fauvism and absinthe and the French who

Eat ants or worms or somethin’ (I would rather go to the bathroom)

Eating porridge and God fruit cancer prevention with China

Tea though he has no money borrowing from friends

Like a desperate failed drugged artist, and the psychiatrists give him five

Blue prescriptions pads, mystic chemical medicines from some PhD doctor chemist

Not even a voodoo doctor from Buddha Tibet who

Hardly gets laid, considering whores but the God-damned gonorrhea. I

Ah better find a theme or they’ll flunk

Me in high school English and I will then be a fail

And everybody with their perfect American resumes with no fail

And healthy aspirations since 2^nd-grade soccer will say what

A pity.

About Tim Ruane

Tim Ruane is an artist and writer. He is a graduate of Georgetown University, where he studied English and art, and has worked as a chief copy editor in the editorial department of The Washington Post, where he has also worked as a freelance photographer. He has written hundreds of poems, two novels a number of short stories. His photographs have been published by The Washington Post, Simon & Schuster and The Good Men Project. He has shown his photographs at Potomac MD Public Library and is scheduled to be published in ShareArt LA, Circumfleks Magazine and Splinter Literary Journal. He will have an exhibition of his photographs in September at the offices of Prudential FedRealty in Washington D.C. Mr. Ruane lives and works in Garrett Park MD, just outside Washington D.C. USA.

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aubrey

14 years ago

I never leave the house without a baited hook.

This reminds me of the only time I went ice-skating: I stalled, I slipped, I fell, I was immovable. I later learned that speed was my friend – if I didn’t stop to consider the direction or danger, I wouldn’t fall (and inconvenience many others). So with this poem: if I don’t stop to consider direction or danger, I become awash with a veil of words and most unusual meanings.