why i hate the holidays,
not the holidays themselves,
as if assigned to remembrance
one day only, "the auto-mode hell"

"these are the doors, these are the hallways",
reminders of things,
we should remark,
remember,
in the allowance of always....

every day is a valentine
for the ones' you adore
beyond yourself,
and not just "the sleepwalked"
so obvious, "please kill me"
cheap syllables, sentenced, "happy happy", i abhor

all you "oh so lucky ones"
so blind, in your selfish, little worlds
of well paid careers, botoxed bodies, minivans carrying
your god forsaken zombie-privileged
monster-in-the-making, boys and girls

technology tainted
aka, "brain dead"
you've trained them to froth
like your perfect latte'
for social media "likes"
only alive, on the camera,
for without, it's a "not" day

as in
it can't be real
if it's not filmed
and it can't be felt
if not exploited and shared
with the "who the fuck are you?",
"just glorify me", everyone else

everyday is valentines
if you carry love in your heart
as in, be fucking human
to those around you, "social climbers", its a dying art

one that demands you realize
you are not, a god damned star
just because you think so
welcome to the age of
spoiled rotten entitlement scars

that's all they are
vestibules pussing, nothing but ego
opinion wars and blinders on
if not "social media influenced",
then the rest, what do we know

nothing, of course
if not followed by so many
so many, just as drained as you
of humility, intimacy
like a body-blind screw

fuck it, plow it, pummel it,
to boneless
if we're gonna live as narcissists
at least we gotta own this

that the camera, turned on self
is now the god, we worship,
define, inner wealth

and nothing is,
if its not being filmed,
the latest meaningless fuck,
the latest laugh-tracked kill

"applause, applause",
with an easy-baked affirmation
screw complexity and nuance,
real thought, it brings that
"my head hurts" sensation

and that's not "hot"
and that's not pretty
and it wont get you loved
by the "no one", called many

so just keep on,
delusion, self importance

this is why i hate the holidays,
i thought, the heart of human,
it could be more than this...

told.

when to care, called pretend, all around
when to acknowledge others,
but not really, clock rewound

back to, "ahead",
faster, faster
we, the consumed, walking dead
onto the next,
before even living in, what's called this moment, now bled...

everything,
for the excuse, such abuse
and everything more
for the "offended",
"poor me, affected, and victim"
juiced, blended

so after the reminder,
set to "now lets all think and lets all pray"
lets get back to the truth,
disembodied, disemboweled ways

the one who is "loved"
is the one who plays
as the one, most the liar,
is the one who is praised

not that i would know,
on "left over cock", i was raised
just a "latch key kid"
better done, as in "did"

but i learned to survive,
in the dream, "one day thrive"
and it may have never happened
but to give love, i tried
non "holidayed", futility fought
the beginning, i learned, is always the end

but know this, please
from the ever tortured by hope, ripped away, tease
i knew christmas, once he came
and it was down on a pair
of well equipped,  bruise born knees

and his name wasn't santa
and his name, not "saint nick"
just some asshole, in "creepy cute"
with a throbbing gift, not a heart
but a prick

i learned to pull up my pants,
block it out
and just get on with it.

life,
as i knew it
not a holiday, "hallmarked"
but a quest to love
passionately,
in a world
called few, if any,
really give a shit.

(i found them)

thank god.
or I would not be alive
my tribe, my angels,
the "up fucked" beautifuls

and

I found this,
for a visionary friend,
real joy, not a holiday,

but the light, electric
filled, his alive, excited, hopeful
childlike eyes

(I did feel them)

and I knew, for a moment,
that
I'm still alive.



bowen hart roselli
7 november 2019  ringwald love