because
of the lies
i
lace over the eyes
of
those who linger
i
can’t unravel my fingers
to
reveal what lies within
conversation
quieted by her presence
she
would enter a room like a goddess
leaving her temple
everything
paled that was once illuminated
by the sun’s essence
yes
it can be that simple
an
all girl band, stage and stand
invited
me to sing
featuring
john young
it
was fun
these
are the moments
only
rock-n-roll can bring
the
quintessential artist
lost
at sea
most
retire at my age
no
longer inspired
fade
into obscurity
but,
no, not me
i
still cry with rhymes unrehearsed
the
turmoil taking its toll
keeps me well versed
a
poet at fifty-five
should
be writing about sunsets
and
other indignations
but,
no, not me
i
keep breaking all my promises
till
the only thing i hate is me
beer
for breakfast
a
continual swirl of cigarette smoke
crazy
girls who invoke
because,
you know, the crazy ones
are
incredible in bed
there’s
no where i don’t tread
except the churches
i
guile a smile all the while
watching
the gargoyles
on their perches
screaming
at the indifference of skin
sagging
from the thin
a
byproduct of being self-destructive
electricity
is conductive
because
i know my troubled waters
will never be still
poetry
is a bitter pill
if
you know how to swallow
and
the know the difference between
pretension
and personal pain
screw
academia and their entire refrain
and
those who write words to sound wise
the
only thing i know is that i don’t know
and
neither do you
slice
of advice sprinkled with cinnamon
i
sampled and tasted, sometimes devoured
but
in the lonely midnight hour
i
found i was still only me
tarzan,
vines and trees
hollering
for jane
waiting
for it all to catch up with me
forever
silencing personal pain
a
poet isn’t someone who writes poetry
it
is someone who hates poetry
because
it won’t give them a divorce
unmasking
your imperfections on a page
while
poetry ejaculates amid its
sadistic arousal
of
watching you suffer and die
as
you beg on your knees for its love
stupid
enough to think
the
lacerations from the lash
are
the physical manifestations of love
at
least a job gives you a day off
and
a week’s vacation
poetry
demands prostration
you
don’t even flinch
while
it rapes your ass
and
calls you its prison bitch
i
succumb while its cum leaks
out
of my bleeding anus
and
everyone else thinks
i
am hobbling because i’m weak
only
a poet understands a poet
validation
isn’t in the printing
or
the royalty checks
in
poetry there is no validation
just
the mastication of words
like
a fucking cow
who
can never satisfy its hunger
a
poet doesn’t need you to read
between the lines
if
poetry should be anything
it should be honest
and
if it’s offensive you get defensive
after
all, the poem was created
in your own image
***
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