No Robe, No Probe

I crawled along page after page
spider like hand claws clasping a leaking pen
blotches black besmirching hackneyed verse
a writer in my mind’s blind eye only
recalling a few sharp lit lightening seconds
stark memories floating in a wine dark sea
adrift and at the mercy of tidal rips vinegar chips
bitter fits and nothing of any significance
drowning in the swells of dopamine and sharkshit
dampened sparks, flash in the brain-pan
dead head zeppelin crashing dreadful

Searching for signs and pictures of the old times
among clouds and fish scale fire trail backwoods blues
you are no longer a person, you’re a song
a sonnet a soliloquy a monologue and epitaph
our time long passed like a hailstorm in Spring
it was never your thing, to dwell on the rising waters
of my simplistic and panicked being, my bad dreams
wet with cold midnight sweat and baseless fears
wretched tear blurred reaching groping grasping
clutching straws and dragon tails with ragged nails
to no avail and never to be repeated
undefeated yet broken and completely spent
invisible diseased canker rotten thoughts
and things I never should have said.

As the dancers bob and weave about us
and the hours gather to gradually surround us
I consider this insidious nature
my fractured reflection, a carrion fattened vulture
red eyed and remote from the suffering
that has sustained for so long, the entrails
the blood and the bones, all the broken homes
and the blackened scratchings of this failed poet.

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