The air breathes silk and soft
the table is crowded with crap things to do
my mind falters in the gutters running criss-cross
the pages of poets dreaming love
where is the *** and sin and late nights
in the bottles of doom
which race through my thoughts
down to the last drop

Where is this  woman I met last week
spilling her ***** out on the table
for us to gaze upon-untouchable
because her man flexes his muscles
while he appears brain dead.

Why do I write such stuff
Why do I see with blinding eyes
Where do the words come from to express
pain and loneliness and the poverty
of patience. Who really reads these snippets

I am rambling into the night
where the shadows make walls
of visions that dance silhouettes
of memories from times ago
and the hustle bustle of beauties
that I once knew are now fragile old women
tending to grandchildren
in the dusty courtyard of life.

Even as I write an endless stream
of rivers cascading into waterfalls
of words my mind bends beautifully
this Sunday mornings sermon of hope.

Just now I heard a youngster write
of what poets and poems do.
Nothing really. It metamorphoses
the body and soul into exquisite
melancholy or madness, pain or purity
but never ever makes sense
when you want it to.

Who ever said poems should be short
with miniskirts and make-up
parading the twilights of ******
and hopelessness
unable to find clients of hope
unprepared to shock  listeners
into jumping off the cliffs of nonsense?

Thats only a snapshot
of how I work
writing endless reams
of the bad and the beautiful.