Morose breath of inspiring gods
forms over the gun barrel gray lake
Awakening Creativity and Conviction
as I discover all the vices that form
in this stagnant pool of a life
which has kept me tied,
face-down,
nose-ground,
and drunk on digression.
Sing to me, Calliope,
something dark and expressive,
something relevant and real,
for the days of late have worn me
thin as this paper’s edge.
My head falls
out,
and my teeth go
bald,
but still I dance
for
the piper.
Please, Erato,
I beg of you, please,
spit some oil paint
wash,
and prime the canvas.
Summon all souls of creativity, old friend –
For no friend
of mine paints the sky today.
So may it be
that passionate poets
bleed
forth through the head of my
pen.
May the
Mad Poets’, Sad Poets’,
Passionate Poets’ cries
be my own.
For if not, then with
sincerity and severity
the envious moon
will
rise,
and
shoot all the stars
dead,
even this Golden Boy.
Blue blood will
flow,
sending all into shock.
As this proxy poet
falls
into
a cave
with fragrant, vacant sign at hoist,
cobwebs
quickly
crawling
in place,
the song poet sings with no voice,
and the Muses all retire.
Nov 4, 2011
Nov 4, 2011 at 5:30 PM UTC
Morose breath of inspiring gods
forms over the gun barrel gray lake
Awakening Creativity and Conviction
as I discover all the vices that form
in this stagnant pool of a life
which has kept me tied,
face-down,
nose-ground,
and drunk on digression.
Sing to me, Calliope,
something dark and expressive,
something relevant and real,
for the days of late have worn me
thin as this paper’s edge.
My head falls
out,
and my teeth go
bald,
but still I dance
for
the piper.
Please, Erato,
I beg of you, please,
spit some oil paint
wash,
and prime the canvas.
Summon all souls of creativity, old friend –
For no friend
of mine paints the sky today.
So may it be
that passionate poets
bleed
forth through the head of my
pen.
May the
Mad Poets’, Sad Poets’,
Passionate Poets’ cries
be my own.
For if not, then with
sincerity and severity
the envious moon
will
rise,
and
shoot all the stars
dead,
even this Golden Boy.
Blue blood will
flow,
sending all into shock.
As this proxy poet
falls
into
a cave
with fragrant, vacant sign at hoist,
cobwebs
quickly
crawling
in place,
the song poet sings with no voice,
and the Muses all retire.
