"writerly" poems
crawling up a mountainside,
filled with certain dread.
knowing that a misstep,
will probably leave me dead.
that’s what writing feels like,
from inside my head.
falling from an airplane,
a pack upon my back.
in love with total weightlessness,
without a single lack.
that’s what writing feels like,
when everything’s on track.
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 2:14 AM UTC
As par and parcel of being
alive wire impossible aye
to maintain totally tubularly
literarily celibate by and bye
with parochial restraint antiseptic dry
as dust poetic refrains
asper this healthy older guy
devoid of physical whim zee
unlike a inscrutable eunuch...so hi
there dear reader experienced
by this self contrived Zen
minded nonestablishmentarian outlier,
whose nonconformist yen
tries to steer clear of controversy,
heresy, prurient wen
unless one happened
to be eunuchized,
i.e. sexless as a cold oven,
but similar to generic men
this writerly hen
pecked husband dully
drumming, droning, and
dribbling as a lix spittle
aged chap housed within
Schwenksville, Pennsylvania bailiwick
though far less inclined
to whet ma lil atrophied dipstick
than some young buck
at the peak of his ****** prowess
every now and again viz,
aye feel a much slighter sensation
drubbing, crackling, and
buckling mine body electric
and attempt to record
re: font ten blue type
boldface and/or Italic
such infrequently occurring
fleeting Johnson magic
speculating why the
hoo ha regarding mystic
spell binding codas,
dogmas, and enigmas,
an integral component naturalistic
within the calculus of life,
when human species
(parenthetically), naturally, inherently,
and biologically opportunistic
akin to other organisms whose quixotic
antics allow NON GMO,
MSG, and gluten free,
and uncensored discussion
asper reproductive habits rhapsodic
with floral and/or faunal symphonic
emanations donning each their own
"NON FAKE" trumpeting
spectacular humbly modest
rubric, yet...universalistic
as being linkedin
within the cosmic whirled wide web.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 4:00 PM UTC
I hail from lands that might seem strange to you my dear
So I have many things to tell you
But I waste much time in trying to make the story short
and encoding it in the language you understand
Sometimes I get lost in poetic mazes of my own making
As for my bloodshot eyes
it's just a thing that comes with writerly insomnia
But you see
the thing with writerly insomnia is life threatening:
I have been staring at blank pages for hours
pondering:
the ink I put, wont it only yield blotted pages?
©victorpoetry
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 6:20 PM UTC