Muse on Steroids

Muse on Steroids


Poetry is but sorrow--
pulled from the marrow
pulsed from the bloody muscle.
Poetry is but tragedy--
punched through the
very guts of a soul
pulled whole, raw, bleeding.

Poetry is born weeping
in eviscerated dreams,
in madmen's schemes,
in the porn of lost reality,
where the dead are not sleeping
peacefully.

The poet
plays with words
and worlds of
maggots writhing
in pus and refuse,
who each feed
and sing refrains
like nauseating earworms
who won't evacuate
our brains.

Only cure is to spew forth
our
verbal vomit
else even words of joy
curdle,
turn sour, leaving a taste
of the manic on tongues
coated in dread.

Might as well be dead
if not expressing best
poetry; as milk from a mother's breast
nourishes, writing feeds
rampaging beast
with clause-long claws,
the oft frayed phrase
hanging by a thread or plotline
from the teeth of the matter.

Physiological or nay
this poet exists in grey garrot,
with stump of candle flickering
as frozen fingers clutch
a ravaged quill while I
pour out my mind, scribbling
in ink bled from my hearts.