The cover of an H.P. Lovecraft novel
is staring me in the face
but I’m not terrified yet
as I haven’t read the book
and I’m feeling mighty lazy
and apathy has nestled in
and it’s all I can do
just to keep from falling asleep
but the psychotic episodes
wane off with time
and—gasp—some foks say maturity
but perish the thought at once
that I’ll go down so easy
when, sore lower back aside,
I’m feeling pretty strong
& perplexed by Conan Doyle
& terrified by Poe
& bewildered by Corelli
something got to give
and hopefully not be my back
As I seek the courage
to take another couple steps
The crowds are urging me on
and I commit to completion,
however long it may be,
and apparently it is
for the rest of my life
But it seems unlikely
I’ll ever eclipse my day job
which is the dream entire
however much they doubt
Aspirations are told
revealed by betrayal
It reeks of opulence
but there is no other way
Such pomp
in such circumstances
is inevitable
and the leaders cower
in the corner
knowing the revolution
is drawing near
and the end
is bloody well coming
with a blitzkrieg unparalleled.
6-29-2000
If U Want Terror
Read Alfred Hitchcock's psycho-babble/head messing with emotional appeals as literature.
psycho babble head--there's a
psycho babble head--there's a poem in there somewhere