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magic.
the very first breath of a brand new baby

magic.
the unsuspecting kiss from a teenage crush

magic.
walking down that isle towards your forever person

magic.
front stage at the concert of your favourite musician

magic.
the moment you discover that you are a poet
i counted up all my moments of magic
I crept into your room last night
I left holding a secret
Between
My
Thighs
holding a secret
the more you bleed
the deeper the passion
so
i
severed
your
jugular
and soaked myself in our crimson romance
this is how much i love you
-

" You have no real sense of meter,
your rhyming is non-existent
and you spell like a brat,
following no rules"


Rules?

i didnt know i had to follow
any rules, 'cept the ones in my
head that represent limitation

"Well, you need to read up
on some of the more classic
"recognized" poets—
Learn the Proper Etiquette !"


Dood,

i have read more than a few lines
of that finer moem-age poem-age,
and if you want to write about why
roses are red on fine sheets of poet paper
with a fountain pen in the fashion of Kipling—

Cool;

i will more likely write about how well Violet blew
over the top of a half empty jug of bourbon with
a ball point pen that skips more or less
in the style of Bukowski—

and then someone can say that
we had both written poems
about Colorful Flowers...



© 2020
.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E4_bHiOpfeU
I’ve got about 20 years to live
Which, for being in my 40s
Is quite bold
People live well past 100 these days
Those with safe routes
Golden paths
Four year college degrees...
.
I drink a few gallons of wine a week
*****
Tequila
But can still run 10 miles
Without stopping
What a strange dichotomy
That woeful mixture
Could be an elixir for some
But it just stresses, strains, depresses, anxiously evolves
Festers
.
At this age you know
The loves who’ve come and gone
and with that admission  
Cynical wit adorning
You’ll know by now
That there truly was only one
And by that, the blood
That pooled, that never clotted
Mighty river
Will someday take you
Drown you bit by bit
Daily
.
For I’ve never been accused
Of being a good man
Men like me die alone
Gutters
Halfway houses
1 bedroom apartments
With one couch
Men like me jump out of windows
Drown in rivers
Of blood that never clot
Waiting
For your hand
To save me
.
20 years is pushing it...
Is this a love poem?
It sure seems that way.
Empty and broken
lacking in sense
starting with a question
and then
Lost in the sounds of tomorrow
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