Music lost, recovered, lost Love lost, recovered, lost Poetry lost, lost, lost even if found Lost in words, words in loss, lost voice Lost embittered passion, seething with lost memories Alzheimer’s child, poetry’s kind upbringing Parentage questioned, orphan of regrets World of healers, force-fed medicines And a flock of slaves, indulge and nurse What poetry couldn’t save Lost in muse mania, threatened with murder Hands of poetry, strong-hold around neck Write, write, write, against your own wishes Nobody can save a nun on a mission, abort Abort all attempts to recover lost causes March in feet and meter, march in leather boots Sink in the leather, whip the groomed girls Tell them poetry is your underworld don Who rules, rules, rules your vision Of a crack in the earth yawning open To eat, eat, eat every dame who is not poetry bitten And madden every guy who is smitten by what’s real My loss, your loss, our loss Poetry is baldness, our hair–the fees Paid when purpose of life was found in epiphany
And with a gust of defeat; the future seems familiar. Has the oneness forgotten about me? The interconnectedness of futile Embellishments followed by straights of garbage, lack-luster trash, soul-less sirens of shit-laced spines, irrelevance, trains without brakes. Exposure, death, the
Strangers from incident, lies for distance, pitfalls of living infrequent, Rushes of sympathy pass over like fever sweat. In concurrent motion the wolves swarm on the lifeless carcass. Impending emotions fill the hole in my stomach, my chest continues to
I’ll let you know some things if I may, Like a captor addressing a prisoner to be. Words like ropes that do not fray, I am locking you in my poetry. It is selfish of me to hold you like
Of splendid thrones of gold or treasures manifold Of jewelled caskets or lavish banquets Of Emirs and rajahs Of Sultan and Shahs Of kings and queens Of rulers and emperors Of sparkling crowns or flowing gowns Of their subservient stewards
Momma! I am your poem. From that mountain hole Too many pains left And from the island of the vexation A little pleasure on the journey twinkle They made a missiles I was fabricated just below your heart And I am
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2 Comments on "Poetry Cracks The Whip"
Retaliation with gusto – poem.
bit heart wrenching write.