I Turn You Into Poems
In fact, at first,
By fiction’s thirst,
To thrust my sight in curse,
‘Tween nurse and verse,
For better, for worse,
At least I can rehearse.
Before the former:
A stench in fallacy’s flame,
Neurosis is but a game.
After all the latter’s the same:
Whether I meld or maim.
When the flames engulf my hands,
Lit parchment sparks my pineal gland.
Answers to question beg ampersands,
To slither out tricks per mind’s demand.
Whether or not, why I live,
I used to care to give,
Thoughts to sands and shaken sieve:
I think them too determinative.
Beyond a child’s belief,
Who knew them for their fief,
And in relief I saw the grief,
Of a diocesan thief.
So then what is it, we should think?
Too many wrote it in faded ink,
Idolatry failed in me to sync,
Whose world their tales just shrink.
So I turned them into story,
They whose nouns feign glory,
With capitals wrote by signatories,
Gave pardon for the gory.
And then I turned it into poem,
To the Devil: I’d have to show him,
To a God: who lives in hymn,
Alone, and written in a whim.
Copyright ©
B. Joseph Fitzsimons
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