So Here, settled, is the bare voice,
Quivering echoes of egos
Do minds make the world hear Drum Dreams?
Here poets have milked tired *******
Of language to allay the lone,
Weighted and burdened from out There.
To rid themselves the form, the world,
The plague of storms that rock this ship,
That overflows, that bleeds too much
Of the vision that draws and defines
The days when the traffic of life
Is the onslaught of passing time.
There we trudge onward grudgingly.
Cradled upright by crashing waves,
Lonely amidst the dim gray sun.
Unnerving the courage of souls
Man is hushed, left to silences.
Reticent and bearing the masks
Hiding in Drum Dreams. Unnoticed,
We’re every soul at the crosswalk.
Here stands the prolific poet
Painting the infinite canvas.
Dreams are swirled upon dreams, deformed
By time, stultifying the brain
With dreams swirled upon dreams, drying
Into dust, caught in the wind’s palm;
Riding the breeze into the stream,
Into the curled spine of the storm.
Dreams swirled upon dreams, seeping;
Painting, and painting the loathsome
Self, trapped in the drum dream, suckling
Violently out of her dream mouth.
He imagines and paints, writhing,
Vacant howling in stormy clouds,
Cast in impotent bloodletting.
Here stands the fanatic poet,
Painting the relentless image,
Playing placated remedy
To dreary drunks trapped in the Drum Dream.
Hear, She hums, she hums the Drum Dream.
And life sways back and forth
Dancing the way the night does
Under the cool glow of streetlights
And all that remains of the world
Are still minds, hypnotized hearts,
And her sudden suckles for breath.
And we slow dance to a rhythmic drum.
Here stands the Prolific Poet…
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 6:05 PM UTC
So Here, settled, is the bare voice,
Quivering echoes of egos
Do minds make the world hear Drum Dreams?
Here poets have milked tired *******
Of language to allay the lone,
Weighted and burdened from out There.
To rid themselves the form, the world,
The plague of storms that rock this ship,
That overflows, that bleeds too much
Of the vision that draws and defines
The days when the traffic of life
Is the onslaught of passing time.
There we trudge onward grudgingly.
Cradled upright by crashing waves,
Lonely amidst the dim gray sun.
Unnerving the courage of souls
Man is hushed, left to silences.
Reticent and bearing the masks
Hiding in Drum Dreams. Unnoticed,
We’re every soul at the crosswalk.
Here stands the prolific poet
Painting the infinite canvas.
Dreams are swirled upon dreams, deformed
By time, stultifying the brain
With dreams swirled upon dreams, drying
Into dust, caught in the wind’s palm;
Riding the breeze into the stream,
Into the curled spine of the storm.
Dreams swirled upon dreams, seeping;
Painting, and painting the loathsome
Self, trapped in the drum dream, suckling
Violently out of her dream mouth.
He imagines and paints, writhing,
Vacant howling in stormy clouds,
Cast in impotent bloodletting.
Here stands the fanatic poet,
Painting the relentless image,
Playing placated remedy
To dreary drunks trapped in the Drum Dream.
Hear, She hums, she hums the Drum Dream.
And life sways back and forth
Dancing the way the night does
Under the cool glow of streetlights
And all that remains of the world
Are still minds, hypnotized hearts,
And her sudden suckles for breath.
And we slow dance to a rhythmic drum.
Here stands the Prolific Poet…
