Friday, March 12, 2010

Psychosis

The thought
candidates for poetry
vanish as quickly as my dreams.
Poetry stands
wriggles seductive hips
smiles seeing me helpless,
stuck in a real bed in a real room.

My availability
is limited, Mister.
You have to climb
away from your comforts
to catch me. If you want me
you have to find
a private lonely place.

What would I do without you,
poetry. Resting here
letting days pass.
The hopes you give me are
vain hopes, slowing time.
It's vainly more than fun.
deep delusion:
ears and eyes of the world.

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