Poetry In Decline

I write hunched, sat over a crate that’s milked whole farms
Suckling on the teat of the muse, a dictionary and some tepid water
This Spartan room stays cool in summer, but Winter’s yet to try me

So close to street level, pedestrian footsteps holler
The taped paper on the panes for privacy means they cannot see me, nor I them
Their inane conversations intrude nonetheless
Someone drunk, always sorry, then angry
(There’s no patience at the bottle’s end)

That’s ok if I want to write about it…
Filling pages with domestic violence and Ockerisms
But what if I don’t?

Mushrooms grow in the dark
Owls hunt by night
And Wolves bay at blue moons
But my prose rolls off the end of the typewriter and down a well
Sinking like an anchor
And when it rains it bubbles out in mediocrity
Ghosts from a past best left alone
I use the kitchen broom to push it out under the door
Out to the guttersnipes, the critics

As luck would have it
I have twelve strings at my touch
When ideas pop, music occupies my hands
I can forget about the spinning words
The white pages with bleeding stab wounds…

I often sit far too long
My legs dead
Maybe that’s where thoughts come from
Drawn up like sap, through the roots
My two shins thin boles
As pins and needles poke about down there

It makes sense that success is measured by discomfort

This is the bare bones of me
As rhyme becomes flesh
I build numerous copies of myself
Alternate versions
Press apple+save

Is this the evolution of the Poet?

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One thought on “Poetry In Decline

  1. Kevin says:

    This painless death
    This sighing breath
    This sleeping wish of mine
    This wish to sleep all the time

    That sweet humid depth
    That blanket joy
    That dark light
    That empty release

    The Strength of that numb weakness
    The ease of the flight
    There will always be another day
    Long live the night

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