>> Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Do you smell sweet-sick flesh out here, moths and lust?
skeletons hanging like scarecrows, their jaws framed into grin,
outlines of hazy dreams, a shadow, a pulpit,
a ragged tree and endless miles of self-churned mud
this is my world, my poetry, sporadic murmurs of "fuck"
strewn without heat, drowned by wave after wave of
swelling phrases, enjoining, parsing, rushing, flooding
language is bottomless, dark pool out of which
I rake spectral cinders of my thought, a blank mote in blank
muteness, grappling at nothingness I had aimed high,
addiction that had come with wanting to serve poetry,
then wanting poetry to serve me when a flurry of volcanic words
spewed out from my fingers, rage of crapulent antipathy
surmounted and my keyboard rattled, when it snowed outside,
the sight of letters dancing on the monitor was better
than a shot of whiskey, restoring my blood to pump again
you chew these discourses with angry lethargy dear reader ?
lurch past something you ought not see, this lengthy poem
makes no scrap of a difference, you plunge no further under its spell,
before exchanging even a word here we've reached the stalemate
publicness has eroded my intensity, you snare library mold,
words everyone else has forgotten, my biggest flaw?
absence of a living spark, so I’d become fire, as fire,
my only wish was to flame, to deplete, to develop,
dazed and burning I’d blackened my soul, thrown my notebooks,
vocabulary and keys that abandoned me in presence of desolation,
the fire laughed and devoured, it reminded me of
something nighttime; subterranean and clandestinely crude
a room full of shadows, more unfortunate than that lurid first failure,
from which appears no escape, this knot in stomach, I’d known before,
somewhere and somehow I’d failed there I have failed here,
in my own territory I stand defeated; Defeat is a habit too.