From the Bleachers by john clare

It was not the best of days. Too hot to work outside, yet I worked outside all day. Emailed the Reporter in response to the editors email that they do not accept poetry. I should have refrained, but I said the paper lacked imagination basically, then replied back that I hoped the observation would be used as opportunity.
Why I continue to compose poetry, when I should be working on my writing lucid and interesting stories I now consider. If the paper does not accept them, there must be a reason. The reason is, most poetry is bad, including mine.
So here is another bad poem, written without a lot of thought, too vague perhaps. I should have just came out and said, I am currently struggling very greatly with sin and the inability to overcome it. In this struggle in this heat today, I cleaned the filters from the well, full of algae and crud. The serpent is not really a snake, but the representation of the struggle with sin.
But then, that would be too open, frank and lucid, and it would call into play my lack of maturity in the faith, that how could one, after so long a time in the faith, still be struggling with sin? The scrutiny would be frustrating and embarrassing as the brothers looked askance at my low state of being.
And then, perhaps not. But, no one else out there is confessing anything, so why should I ? And so we
struggle in our own private struggles. Others just cruise along and never commit anything to scrutiny. Too dangerous.

From the Bleachers    by john clare

It was a sink fang type of day
Losing the desire for everything
Except vain glory
To write poetry a chore
Wait for a hummingbird
A terrible bore
Hold the little one
Not very much fun.
Even work in the yard
Too hot and hard.
On the floor a stack of books.
Old and full of wisdom
May as well burn them
In flames all consuming
Eternal fire looming while
Wrapped around my hands
The killer snake slips loose
As I gnaw my teeth deeply in
X-marks cut and suck repeatedly.

The only saving grace
Is the misery of this
infernal place
The only hope
That as I blindly hope
The poison I'll purge
And crack some
life back into this
Snake pit of mine.

The crud of gangrene algae
The pain of knives rusty
The infection oozing in
Lock jaw misery with a grin
The bleach is crushed on ice
Purified white is goes down nice.

Fridays not all thank godits
After a week in hades prodding
Will Saturday be more of the same
Or Sunday find me profaning the Name?
And come Monday, when I am back at home
And that serpent comes slithering
around me here all alone
Who will believe Tuesday I'm dead and gone?

So mamma here is the grocery list:
bleach, bandages, whiskey, razor blades
gauze and peroxide
Rope, tape, tourniquet and some shells.
I anticipate a serpent heading my way
And in order to survive
Just in case I come out alive
but until then...
One more round of bleach for all
Whited sepulcher's we all stand tall.