Lit-zine
JU
The Struggle
Wayne Russell
Ugly in the morning
After Earth
Wayne Russell is a creative writer from Tampa, Florida, his work has been described by his peers as "dark" "brooding" "honest" "raw" "surreal" "gritty" and "very observational of the ravaged world that we live in." Over the years Wayne has been published in various publications such as Foliate Oak, Poetry Quarterly, Danse Macabre, Dead Snakes, mgversion2>datura, Eccentric Press, Far Off Places, Poets' Espresso Review, and the Moon Mist Valley anthology.
There is an epic struggle unfolding tonight,
underneath looming stars and gloomy moon.
Beneath this roof of safe haven house, sprawled
out upon leather couch, pondering the cruelness
of addiction and the tortures of sobriety.
There is a clock on the wall that laughs' at me,
it taunts me with its' s ticks and tocks, it's almost
mortifying as Chinese water torture.
The ticks and tocks intermingle with the kitchen
sinks drips and drops.
There are roaches scampering around, seeking
solace in the darkened parameters of my loneliness.
The clocks second hand pounds my temple like a
bongo, I want to scream, but I can't; the wife and
kids will awake.
There is an epic struggle unfolding tonight,
underneath looming stars and gloomy moon.
The liquor store will close at midnight, the clock on
the wall will keep me updated.
My struggle for sobriety continues, it shall do so
every single day for the rest of my life; this is day
three.
In drunken slumber
tossing and turning
like a panicked ship
wrestling the swells
of rabid foaming waves.
My mind does battle with
demons my skin oozing
last night’s beer upon
sweaty salty sheets.
My arms lash out in thin
and flowing symphony
legs galloping madly
mouth agape in meager
attempt to rebuke the dawn.
I just want to sleep for an
eternity, because I know
when the morning marches
through those bedroom blinds
I will be as always, still ugly.
Drunk lens of the earth,
the core fell out at the
calm stroke of midnight.
Every drop of blood and
glitter spilled out upon the
ground. self inflicted wounds,
calm in mute self composure.
Disintegrate with me, beneath
the ugly moon.
Rake the rotten leaves of the
cosmos over my body, I want to
hide for all eternity.
Innocence lost, living well beyond
our means, let the phosphorous
stars implode, there is a box in my
heart that I can always run to.
Let the singers sing and the swingers
swing, changing orb oh Mother Earth,
you shall have your revenge.
And now we speak of Mars, it awaits
our arrival like a looming disease.
The red planet knows that it is the
next in line, in the cosmic pantomime.