slowly, darkly,
creeps the creeper upward,
gently, softly,
seeking subject subvert,

squeezing, choking,
round and round it winds so,
clutching, grasping,
as in Hitchcock slide-show,

chloroplast it seeks,
in the silence it you speaks,
in dreaded game o' hide-and-seek,
deadly snare that slides and sneaks
binds together wild and weak
tames them unto mild and meek

deftly, smoothly,
pulls you up on seaboard,
unawares he smiles at you,
plants his tentacle deep in you,
plays on you as keyboard,
poisons inner mind-ward,
extradites your innocence,
chaste and untouched inner sense,
skillfully and neatly you are his.

i'd wandered lonely by the stream
a stream that passed me by
lived my life as in a dream
while others climbed on high

i'd tried to tread my own path
but soon got led astray
by the whisper, by the laugh,
by the waggish wit at play

now that stream's become a trickle
now it mocks with evil glee
as it bends into a sickle
as it glints and winks at me.

To live,
Or not,
that is the question:

Is it better to suffer,
as rail-car buffer,
the hurt and harrows,
slings and arrows,
of life?

Or to stand akimbo,
the soul, closed window,
by swallowing pills
take arms against kills,
emancipation
through medication,
Is that life?
Or death?

To sleep away the heart-ache that flesh is heir to,
to dull with chemicals, and wear one's heart as Hollywood hairdo,
is that a consummation devoutly to be wish'd?

or to feel the whips of time,
the scorns of human grime,
the blood that's shaken from heart receiving fist?

the unnatural pantomime
of *******, predatory crime,
be pounded into dust as worthless grist?

To live the oppressor's wrong,
but yet to hear heaven's song,
to suffer the spurn of love,
but free to scale the worlds above,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
experience overwhelm of nerves and strife,
but to feel the needle and face it as a man?

To live,
Or not,
Is that a question?

i hesitate to write
let heart alight
in prance and caper
on blood-soaked paper
squeeze blinded sight
as blobs of night
with ink like mud
scribe life-blood
in skit burlesque
of form grotesque
reveal the hidden
from cell of prison

for pure wine
spirit refined
distilled in heart
through pain and smart
the fruit of mind
from Hades mined,
as minerals rare
as crystalized air,
a c e t i f i e s
'fore human eyes

and poison taints the heavy line
that once in crucible of heart and mind
the hurt and harm from day and year
compressed to diamond crystal tear
in duress constant, heat 'n pressure,
as kernel mauled in wheat corn-thresher
reveals the inner pearl-like sphere
hidden from eye and hidden from ear
now spilt in crave for adulation
for recognition beyond one's station

spilt in scrawl of unnatural saga,
as empty song of Frank Sinatra,
in rigid lines that false betray,
as waves that lie to child at play,
hide the inscrutable, the teeming ocean,
the seething froth of quelched emotion
all to oblige the lust for notice,
as garrulous child, as vivid lotus,
in noisome thirst for recognition
besmirch the purest imagination

where is the true, ingenuous art
the beauty apparent in simplistic heart
without the jazz, the scintillating jive,
the quest to 'have', the unending drive
whose joy is fleeting
as seafarers' greeting
culminates in air
or empty scare,
a ghostly behemoth
of ghastly dedolence
thrives in undergrowth
of curious redolence,
flourishes in hollow
of vacant bellow,
lives in the dark
of empty bark

but yet this world of cause 'n effect,
of light and dark, of sun and reflect,
as sun-drenched wine in oaken cask,
must show its wares in apposite mask,
as gibbous moon to eye discerning
speaks of fire forever burning,
of highs and lows in harmony
of contrapuntal melody,
thus pure must sound as beat on drum
and air give voice to heart that's dumb