Oh God, visit me at my window as I am confined to the cells my ribcage forms. Lend your hand to me, something I can hold onto and be too weak to let go. You dictator, you controller, you sweet manipulator you. We dance like marionettes for God and he claps his hands in approval. Bukowski sings to the gutter on the street, sorting between bottles of liquor in his hands and the clutter of a poet's mind. He deals. We all deal.
Poets are more like vessels than humans, if anything. We live to write so others can live on our words. Our tongues tie romantically when not in you, and tie frantically when they are. The worst conversationalists are the best poets. The poets with stanzas instead of bones and another heart where the brain would be located.
The lumps in their throats loosen with the keys of a typewrite to guide them.
Bukowki's in the gutter with his mind amidst the clutter of a poet's heart and he sings. Oh, he sings.
No comments:
Post a Comment