On a Night I Can'T Write

I was going to write a poem, but my brain went on fire, and the fumes and darkened charcoal swallowed up all poetic ability and let breathe only ebony dust in the darkened gunpowder night, it's 1:37am, and I'm lighting a small flame on my lap, it has something to do with stanzaic form, and very little word choice, in fact I don't much care for form anymore at this point and the sentence extends dangerously to the left. So I’m fuelling the steam-engine, and the passengers come in screaming, flailing their arms up in the air like broken barbie dolls, and I don't much care and wear a look of non-chalance as the train continues to slip off the rails and awkwardly stumbles through a grouping of elderly evergreen trees. Fifty-two people died that day. And I was none wiser when I stopped in the late night purple marble of a greenhouse filled with wild orchids, and had to deal with a shovel-wielding drunk redneck who disliked hippies on his property. I had no notion of space and time in the red-corridors of love, or falling head-first in the living walls of symbology, because words are more than black lines, they are little black lies that mask true experience in a soft hue of human palatability. And that time, in fact, this time, when writing was done to test the possibility of an eternal fire, burning, burning, burning, even when the soul necessarily isn't. This is who I am, the doubting tragi-comic psychedelic wonder-bra of the Canadian literary canon, and I'm undiscovered, and unread. Ain't that the truth? So where's the art, and entertainment, who's doing the narrating, and why are ravens barking by the old tree at the hangman's corner? I can't answer that, I'm just a bubbling chemical reaction. I'm just an organism. I'm just a brain reacting to stimuli, I'm just a synapse firing electronic television mechanization into the sad-eyes of ghosts on Ginsberg's spider web, except this time it's just wooden dolls with rubbed out faces, and I'm not sure who erases, and who to blame for not being saved from ridiculous hell because everyone only thinks for themselves, and, and, and... so do I... Even to the point of running out of words, and as the final letters are tapped into succession, I hope someone looks into this rant and sees a small stretch of life that breathed as well as it could, with true lies, unconstructed, and spilled on a night when I can't write.