poetry is not a science

poetry is not a science to me…
it’s a painting, of words, feelings and black emotions.
it’s a sea of old blood bringing sickness to the sand;
a sea of grimy blood and shiny things.

it’s a psychedelic sea of tiny shells broken up,
and the World, will never know the faintness of its Being,
will the World, ever see the genius?


Complete by Candlelight

She’s a psycho in her big, brazen feelings.  She’s a psycho in her right, a psycho to the tune, immune to alien bites and full moons… a psycho – complete by candlelight.  Should she find the time to keep her esoteric guise in place?  Should she wear a deviled mask, of sweat, pain and grace, a sweaty beaded bulk inside her rose-colored sun, a drumming of her ego’s quick escape?

Protection in psychosis; her guise plays along, prolonging common sense, her truly awesome fate, extending each and every grimy hiker as of late.  Can she find the path with crystallized light inside a song?  Should she bother?

Addictive Cake

A jaded ghost lurks inside the corridors of my journal.
Shall I feed it addictive cake and meet its needs with gullibility?  No.  I am much too late for that nonsense.  Its jaded royalty has been feeding off the emptiness in my Soul ever since childhood.  The physical ailments I experience are byproducts of this emptiness.  In ignorance, I continue to feed it addictive cake.  I cannot meet its desiccated needs with innocence, because my ignorance is what it survives on – it survives on my ignorance and addictive cake in excess.  Ignorance is no excuse in this matter.  My ignorance gives rise to the matter, to the jaded ghost who lurks inside the corridors of my journal.  What artlessness rides alongside it in the night’s wind?