Hit or Miss

by Ray Gately


We are the self-sufficient dead.

Empty, silent, safe, not saving.

Shallow, saturating people with arbitrary pressures,

Harnessing the weapons in talk and touch.

We are needy people through our hurt,

Settling for tinsel-thin lives.

Cogito ergo sum, I am what I have done.

Security is the enemy within.

Our minds are dreaming, scheming, gleaming

Like meteorites striking and blazing across a fragile sky.

Always looking for more than enough,

Fair water, fair weather friends, tough to be fair.

The politicians cling to power,

Grasping the bleeding crown of MacBeth.

The fungis' roost of damp nooks and rotting corners,

Hallucinating in a haze of paper-thin wealth.

Madness inherits our lives and sleep,

A one-way street that ends in death.

The leaves of the trees overwhelm us in decay,

We are prisoners of our own success.

Sickness overtakes us at the height of our fame,

We renounce more than we accomplish.

The top rung, the final goal, alleluia,

Rehashing the rancour, recycling the rage.

Turbulent minds, taxing times,


Summer has with the spiders' webs

Moved into autumn when we begin to reek

The warning of reality when the wind whips our skin.

Whimpering along a path hedged back,

Mushroom lust engulfs and intoxicates all.

In this sprawl, spiralling yet inanimate,

Handsome Alciabiades charms and disarms us.

The worn-out adult retreats to his pint,

Or the beauty treatment wrinkled free.

Accumulated jobs, wealth and memories,

Are the trappings and consolations of old age.

The day we awaken and recall the wrong road taken,

The risk of hope though we cannot recover time.

The chimed betrayal of straddled desire seduces me

In the surrender to growing up and growing old.