I have no tolerance for hope. Hope survives
on leftovers and unwilling loss: a soiled casket of
emptiness for every six feet of paragraph
it wades behind. Hope stuffs itself between the words
and the meaning, loudly camouflaged by
gambling and cigarettes, declining to altercate but
lathered by a demand to be seen. It shuns you,
but needs you desirable, a voyeurist: a
lap dancing ghost to keep it current.
            Hope is a pimp
and you whore yourself to keep it primed,
shedding your skin like a puree of missing passports,
onion tears soaking sensibility after raw
sensibility, riding hope faster than your hips can keep up,
because, and after all,
there has to be a better place than this.
Time is just an expanse to harness,
a mount for crossing –
and you must wager everything,
from soul to sex
to grind it hard to a halt.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 19 November, 2018


  1. Indeed your words are awesome Tamara, they make sense of this senseless void. A call to arms, a clarion call for those that have fallen, your words ignite a spark that some have thought dormant. For what have we become, the various berserker workers in the corporate scenescapes of our newly created hell on earth. The doormats that were once men, can read your words and see someone they can call kin – your words, like distant firelights in the night of hopelessness, the capitalist wasteland i find myself in. A tiny spark of hope, that all is not lost, one last journey, the greatest of all jousts

    Liked by 1 person

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