Sunday, January 18, 2015

Stifle Edith... if you can.

Art is like a fart... it comes unasked
with unsavory aromas and an
unlikely return... and yet,
you know it must just come.

How appropriately unjust.

That's the jest... better put all reason to rest.

I just wanted a little nap, a reason to escape
on a couch with no reason to wake.

In a mind unsound with rhythm and wine
there trembled a small and resonate quake.

I had to wake... to bake a cake, to tame a snake.

The words were there and I got up to stare...
at a computer screen... a dumbed down stare.

Oh blessed curse...what the hell was that verse?

Wisps of clouds and a slip of the tongue
is a poetic license to the very young.

I'm not that dumb.

Forgotten in an instance, but I'm still here.

It was important at the time, but now I just

I'm still here!


Ya gotta know the caterpillar
to be the butterfly.

Oh my, how wry.

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