PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Real poets drink coffee

And smoke cigarettes

And get high sometimes

On various other substances

When the occassion is called

By shaman lords of the divine

Lost caverns to brightest sky

*

How am I supposed to sleep

With all these fucking creeps

Slithering up my yoga spine

And flicks its fevered tongue,

Oooh, that tickles, sweet snake!

Now my cerebellum certainly

Is rather rattled and saddled

By the superior nerves of your

Light-speed control over flesh

*

I swear there's a spell in this place

Nobody seems to be able to sleep-

And it's not bcuz the yelping pups;

The witches are out and about.

Madonna hypnosis seductress supreme,

In all her glory on the television screen,

Trickery technology, skeptic enlightment,

The Mormon church promised me a wife