PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Beware, my friend, of the illogical quests

Like a brazen tenor pertruding a voice across a

dark theatre

A rehearsal for the ghosts of dead curtain men

All the while, air waves are being transformed into

quaint thought processes

You do this first, and then, that next

You lodge bottles down the circumference of your

ulcered throat

and feel up a lanky woman in speculation



I forget, it is written, that we are held

accountable for each thing we do



In some strange movement of force,

the door had been pushed open

I heard no knocking at this door

I saw nothing at this door

I have done no wrong to this door for it

to sway as such

so I grab my glass and

sounter off

with heartburn and the disease of mystery



At this wall, there is no cease-fire for the poets

All the good ones drink themselves to death or

cut their jugulars with their own fountain pens

And lovers gather at noon for one last tango, with

pain so sharp it takes a hundred years to name it

This is how it feels,

to be cut off

This is how it feels,

to understand the intricate pattern of the world



Hush now. Let me tape your mouth.

My soul grew shapes like stars like

bacteria like interpretive drawings

and even my ribs learned to bend and

snap like a twig



And in my newly charted calculations I find:

The bigger something grows,

the closer it is to dying.