Almost a Poem

i just want to sit around, drinking, sniffing things, scratching myself, getting high. just watching my pen fill up a page. do whatever it takes to become a 'writer.' a 'poet.' something i admire, but never really aspire to. i just don't think i'd fit in. they write poems about insignificant relations and parallels to the most trite of insights. so here it is. my poem about nothing. about Pyrrhus and his futile fight against tyranny, how krebs will never fit in either. we've both survived a war that's killed us. 'another victory like that and we're done for' 'for Hecuba!' but who is either to any of us that we should keep burning their name, a revolutionary backfire, Orc consumed in his own final livid flame. even your own wings cannot soar so high past the wax-melting maze of the sky, past this palace of wisdom. the house shifting finding for you another pit, with clouds round rolling the mighty choose to reside, hidden in their labyrinth, behind their podiums, judicatures & wooden caricatures of humanity- writing poems about nothing, terrorizing imagination & out-lawing sanity. will you be my Valentine on that day? we'll be spurning christ's terrene body watching the whole demon-built-world descend as our flesh melts away. let this mortal loss gain immortality. let them puzzle over this for centuries never fitting the edge pieces together, if they do, make room they'll be muzzled & burning too, our doom obstructed by Crass Casualty dicing Time into eternal mansions once this beast called man is surpassed and the illusions are masked in the mirror of life imitating art imitating wilde paradoxes, such a poetic heterodox.