(the
only way to stay
poetically strong
is to intend each poem
to be your swan song)
sliding
down the sideburns
of
the sands upon the slopes
actually
i lost my footing
trying
to get down to the beach
crescent
moons refuse to illumine
pathways
when
you’re me even the sea
is
the dark streets of decay
black
ocean
it’s
so dark
when
i light my cigarette
the
flame seems so bright
it
hurts my eyes
cold
ocean breeze
this
angelino in freeze
but
i’m listening to sorrowful land’s
“on
another’s sorrow”
and
i’m inspired to borrow
the
embrace of acclimating
to
the ecosystem
leave
a trail of all i entail
until
i reach the end of the beach
wearing
nothing but a cigarette
which
extinguishes wet
when
i pour myself
into
the pacific ocean
fucking
cold
icicles
forming on my pubic hairs
i
declare and vow to never grow old
in
the market place of bought and sold
where
you have to barter
hopes,
dreams and desires
for
a few pieces of coal
for
a fire
as
they define your needs
and
the level of warmth
that
should comfort
did
you know i’m writing
this
rhyme in real time?
holding
pen and notebook high
jumping
up every time
i’m
accosted by a wave
i
will not be saved
by
your syllables of sensibilities
when
i realized truth is only perceived
i
have tried to transcend
all
perception
but
my nerve endings won’t deny
that
it’s fucking cold
so
i scroll back through
my
strewn possessions
till
i find my flask
which
i have never asked,
“are
you the answer?”
i
just wrap my lips around
its
hardness
and
let it cum in my mouth
an
artist i’ve recently been into
aleah
liane stanbridge
the
champion of all talent
i
googled last night
found
she died of cancer
young
years
ago
before
her career had even begun
and
tonight i immerse
in
living verse
as
my tributaries flow
into
an ocean
that
will never bestow
anything
but fossil recollections
and
depths which can only by plumbed
by
sonar echoes
as
poseiden laughs at a species
that
perceives
when
we crawled out of the sea
eons
ago
we
now consider
as
an accomplishment
clothes
recaptured
music
reattached to my ears
i
steer my solitude
into
a view
of
concrete and intersections
part
of the collection
no
one has gathered
select
cruel youth’s
“hatefuck”
a
cigarette stuck
in
my cranial orifice
l.a.
is so indifferent
which
is why i will never leave
who
else is going to chronicle
like
a scholar with a monocle
this
ant farm racing
as
if haste will hasten
the
purpose of existence
while
somewhere a poet’s subsistence
is
emerging from the verging sea
writing
poetry
because
the only way to exist
is
as an individual
and
not a residual
of
everyone else’s expectations
***
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