It is the whisper of uncertainty that growls

softly next to my ear and throws punches that strike

between my ribcage and pummels the heart

over and over again. The shouts of derision

of the fear and loathing in the back of my mind,

whispering slowly, the crescendo damning with faint praise

and the suffering of the crested rejection never far behind

the swell of the tsunami breaking itself apart

on the polystyrene rock of my thoughts;

the erosion of Time left ever scared on my scared

and fractious mind.

 

The greatest minds of your generation Ginsberg,

nothing prepares you for the sight of the generation before

crushed by humiliation, the one that you stand amongst now

ravaged by easy guilt and the priceless debt owed time and

time again, and to the generation, the family of pre-teens,

the gangly led, idealism robbed pre-adults and the

those to whom being in their twenties

may as well be the curse of cynicism drafted by the throat

and squeezed dry, blood empty, brain devoid of emotion

and the strength to fight the insanity being

injected into us all from their poisoned pen, greatest minds robbed

Ginsberg, try all three at the same time and see their suffering now

in a golden age of deformity and unreasoned objectification,

if they’re not turning a profit then what good are they

attitude which we all know stinks of the rancid flesh

they devour and defecate out the other

end.

 

Being scared is not a human trait when thinking

of the ties to the family seat…

…or at least it shouldn’t be, yet it whispers in the dark

and the scream I feel rise with tension and gut busting agony,

from the pit of my stomach to the worn

out flesh, nibbled and chewed with rotting teeth

of my throat, my bare breasts, my soul and my happiness,

is muted

for the scream at four in the morning, when the

industrious cat finds its moonlight serenade

interrupted by whinging ginger avoidance

and flying boot carcass, is not one that

anyone wants to admit to hearing.

 

It whispers and devours, and devours and devours,

till the scream becomes the seething becomes the shout of passive

indignation, becomes the disgruntled raising of the shoulders becomes

the whisper becomes acceptance and the flag of victory

is raised above your head.

 

In the end the whispering wins.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015