The Poet's Curse

Flooded mind in an arid desert existence
my oasis is a
square peg in Maslows hierarchy.
feed me paper plated possibilities
while my lungs burn
for ink stained atmosphere.

Outsider,
silent observer and undesignated critic -
the ticking never stops
without poetic deconstruction
of societal wastleland shaped bombs.

Born into this
I decry my morbid existence,
spent in solitude
spent in hunger,
as amorphous animalistic anger
festers until light rises
out of clear sighted verses.

Torpefied torment only cured
by hospitalized hour handed
time spent,
without relent
in my parabolic chair
of destined empathic expression.

Born into this,
my perennial poets curse

I contain multitudes

blazing the tall grass of the past

acting the big bad wolf

huffing, puffing cigarettes

and blowing up Peruvian powder.

dancing on stages and tables

while growling my agony

in moans and groans

to joy division tones.

howling into the night

to back beats and guitar solos

shrieking with a might

heads could explode.

black ink burning my pages

with a darkness which could shake

brooding Boston-born Poe

in his Baltimore burial bed.

i contain multitudes.

hiding behind wind swept

wild weeping willow hair,

hanging in my face

shying from prying stares.

locking myself behind

dingy dungeon bedroom doors

chained to a writing desk

fighting writers block wars.

playing second fiddle

keyboardist on a typewriter

dead inside // alive online

I

we are the square-eyed children

who swim in radio waves

from our rooms of solitude,

painted in blue moods

and hues of synchronized views

with our online friends,

who refresh our highlight reels

to hollow barrels of silent

stone faced laughter

and muted,

seated ovation.

eyes glued to the all-seeing screen

blind in a bubble of bloated ego,

flaccid placid photographers

who play the spectator

part-time role

behind narrow focused lenses

which see more than our eyes

who specialize in self-portraits,

chopping cropping

the big picture,

only to fit our bigger heads

and the dead stares of our square-eyes.

              II

there is more life

in a morgu...

Life is Beautiful

i would fall from heights

shaking Lucifer terrified

for Luna's starry skies to linger,

in a Jashar night, by your side.

floating on Chopin stroked ivory nocturnes

swimming in deep ruby pools of Pinot Noir

dancing on your flowering lips,

sweet with vanilla cigarette smoke.

life is beautiful.

phosphorus waves of purple patches

carry me from seas of stormy eyes

onto shores sanctuary with blue skies

harbored in your sheltering arms.

brighter than painted pages

singing lullabies in the city of angels,

blinded dizzy by the light shining

through the iris of your eyes.

life is beautiful.

punctured bicycle on a hillside

spread by skyscraper flames

burning my humble log cabin existence