greasy smear

i don’t set out to write scene when i set out to write a poem, i don’t fret about syntax or word choice or really much of anything

i let my finger trail in the waters around me picking up whatever fragments the song chooses to sing in hushed tones

sometimes that is all it does, paint with watercolors of a fuzzy image just out focus in hazy glimpses into the spectrals of woe

sometimes she is a siren luring me to peek over the edge only to grab me in an embrace as it pulls me under the surface to drown

once the song ends i listen again for the next melody to shape itself from the craggy halls of my hollow cathedral to words

there is never an intent, just an action or reaction chemically bonding with whatever passive meandering swallows my day

i don’t read and correct or pass over and deflect, they just come out to neglect until later when i come to collect them for print

it’s then that i see the whorl of the thumbprint in small segments that sometimes fill me with wonder at the wandering words

the letters do all of the heavy lifting, my thumbs just tap in random sequences as something vaguely poetic comes out

a good magician doesn’t reveal his secrets but a destitute poet is no better than a whore shilling emotion for pennies or fame

me, i am just a fool that listens to songs that don’t exist to spill words that don’t belong in the same random thought

this manic word depot is matchsticks hastily stacked on top of some sort of accursed burial ground of scars time has forgot

all it takes is an errant spark and the nothingness becomes another greasy smear on the soles of those that search for something more


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