Poetry

O this learned and engrained sickness,
this obsession with words, sadly,

I must admit I am terminally afflicted,
The words they grow inside like
a loving cancer.

Venomous habit,
this tangled practice:

manipulating spider webs
of suffering
into ivory orchid offerings.


In vain I can strain my mind all day
but alas, to no avail,
this
veil still obfuscates the space between us.

Intruding and impeding,
uninvited
they filter through my web;
mosquitoes blemishing naked
summerlit flesh,
bits of lead and calcium
accumulated in my seer's
spigot,
muddying the cup
from which we sip and share.

Like a
horse with blinders,
these words keep me running along
this never
ending-short lived-straight forward-circular track
The words whip and I
obey!

Hah these silly empty abstractions!
Such a laughable pity how

they have made me their slave!

But let me be honest,

I'll
never have the courage to run.
There's no escaping- they are my escape!

I could never bring myself to abandon them
I've grown too accustomed to
their phantom, poetic world

My whole life is built upon these
abstractions!
I've grouped people into three basic categories:

Inspiration, Support and Distraction!

O to find haven in the land of
pure color and image,
to communicate through the soul
and forever keep
my mouth closed!

O to be a master of psychic intuition and animal
instinct!

Dry and brittle, these words, a carcass, discarded bone

void of all essential marrow

Bloated and lifeless, these moribund
words, this poem
lacking all essential qualities of health and meaning.