Thursday, August 4, 2011


I am not a poet that suffers for
his art, rather a poet suffering,
because of his art.

I tried the role of gin-soaked
martyr spouting injustice,
banging away on the keys
with nicotine stained digits,
pissing on cardboard walls.

I was once inspired by the likes
of Keats, Dylan, Eliot, verse so
dynamic you could smell the

Then there is love, the longing of,
the back and forth transcendence from,
the wishing for, and …… the regretting,
soul-searching, manipulating, attenuating.

These are my boundaries, laid out like
a pyramid.

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