If you ever read
a poet’s words
On screen, on
paper, on lips
Occasionally
retort
Egos are like
switchblades
Held captive in
pent tension, passive and blunt
Yet sprung in
instance to impale the handler or
Those within
approximate space
When forces
succumb to the natural gravity of expansion
The examination
of catacomb psyches and carnivorous coronary ventricles
Posing as juice
for the engine to assuage oneself that the light is lighter
Or the dark is
darker, but it is all the more comfortable blanketed in the shadows
This penchant for
spelunking blind without mammal wings
Or echo location
leaves one rabid at times
For a response, a
kernel of knowledge that some part of this mining
Is somehow
registering as valuable outside a gemological institute
Using a customary
system of weighing metaphors for humanitarian exchange
Writers often
write, because something is not right within
Busted as valve
or sewer pipe molded and crackled with k-hole confidence
Racing
thoroughbreds of the mind for some bent ray outside
Where some
resource of soil takes root admixed in the loneliness
Reverberate the
legislation of cocaine or heroin; how many addicts wax ecstatic
Thinking art and
an enlightened mind made anything but a skeleton-rack of lazybones
Rattling prattle
of self-diagnosed morbid battles of how the sinew was stripped
The cancer
spread; whose fault it was and whose lover fled
Aghast!
Preposterous! Futile! Monstrous!
Kill! Mame!
Murder! Pray!
Save the bastard
in his rants, words parading out his coffin-mouth like ants
Armed with barbed
blades profiteering off a manufactured mistake
No subject, no
genuine, no saint, no contagion
Just an
intolerable child whining aloft in the audacity to speak
How is any writer
to learn unless busted like a balloon
That this was
valid or this was invalid?
Condemn, analyze,
give a man the decency of an executed death sentence
Nah, walk out on
me like a Beatles song and never speak again
No professed
hate, only brazen indifference, the perdition of any true writer
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