All About Love
No matter the subject, poetry,
somehow, is all about love --
Love, a poet's bread and butter.
Staple stapled to the writing
tip of his forever pen, and the backside
of his often used pencil. Falling in and out of.
Were it not for Love's addictive nature,
a poet's heart's habitual affliction...there would be no poetry.
No poet. Period.
Hallmark rhymes are far from my
heart's loses and finds, no paper beaters
in said repertoire -- torrid bliss, or totally disappointed,
pissed!~ has always been my hotly repeated refrain! --
Poetry oscillates, lively. A charged, bare wire!
Makes for hyper passionality (made that word up).
Rises, a Sky-rocket -- bottoms~ a clogged bowel!
Too much overeating of non-tenderized fowl
reflects and epitomizes, self induced, masochistic
relationships, that lead to, autogenous, butchered,
my own mental scalpel, seeming lobotomies. A medical wonder I can yet write.
The poet consumes drama~ discharges incessantly!
Both sustenance and waste, same confounded paste
he spreads on toast and his own body roast --
Adds and subtracts vociferously, voluminously, deeply,
depth-fully~ each work, in some way, an extension
of presupposed, paramount, though egoistic, core matters. His many
Pointillism, mixed with mere, random, ill conceived
uninspiring hackneyed splatters.
Feels so deeply,
that what he cannot create for himself, from emotional
others he will beg, steal and borrow -- absence of
love, for the poet~ there is no
yesterday! Nor today...nor future desire though potentially a richly composite
tomorrow.
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