Before you say this is *******
Read the first line again
Before you say this is *******
Read the third line again
Before you say this is *******
Read the fifth line again
Before you say this is *******
Read the first line from the third word
This is *******, Isn't it?

The failed seduction
by drunken discussion
and skunk fueled
consumption, leads to
a compunction dysfunction
suspended in animation
the digital tides
of expulsion
catapult me into a
an eschewing propulsion
and the limitations
of re-imagination.

As far as I was aware
I was imprisoned
in nothing more
than the realms of
Skype and FourSquare
but for the Feng Shui
of trapped energies
and google-mapped memories
adorning the locations
of complacent hallucinations
amid the dark fibre
communications
with a female
of Nordic persuasion.

The compliments and comments
and poems I sent
were lost to the myriad
of random intent
I was attempting to be clever
and metaphysical
she on the other hand
was PHD level
and psychoanalytical
ergo my metrical composition
was utterly lost
in a conversation
on metaphorical reproduction
and the magic and mysteries
of osmosis
and the application
of modification
by transduction.

The moral of this tale
- if indeed there is one -
is if you are going to Skype
with a mentally superior type
do not before hand
have a blistering
smouldering
grass pipe
with a flagon of ale
lest you be a
gibbering earthling
destined to fail.

~~~

Mouth to Mouth, Chest to Chest



~~~
"Heard the song of a poet,
who died in the gutter"
from Bob Dylan's song,
"It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall"
~~~

heard the song of a poet
who died in the gutter,
last verse, last curse,
not a shout, more a mutter,
a question answered in the asking,
mix tape tune of mournful and joy,
a dying man's elixir.

who will me,
anyone recall?

I will.

not each poem, nor stanza,
but more
each hard rooted, weeded
and impossible to remove letter,
will come to be in,
carried and burnt upon my chest,
chiseled, precision hand tooled.

though my body to dusty ash
fated inevitable,
following yours,
those letters of yours,
will not to heaven ascend,
but come to miracle rest
on the skin of another, renewed

for this the way poetry gets
passed on,
a sustainable, renewal
natural resource,

never down,
always, always,
upward

ear to ear,
mouth to mouth,
from chest to chest

~~~

July 10, 2015