08
Dec
09

Sweetsick

The poetry does not come when I want to write
It comes when I want to live or not live very well
Like a sprinkle after flood or A
Plus after bad paper that is bad analysis.
And maybe poetry is bad analysis.
Some kind of infusion of some kind of passion..
Some kind of bad analysis.
Imperical only in inspiration.
And that is pseudoscientific bad
Analysis

Repeating rep’tition
Circles danced around my wants and needs and time
– A simple sweetsick racetrack –
racing from one end to another means
When there is no real end game only
More grapes to eat endless grapes.
And they are all a dark dark ripe
They are all dark dark ripe
The dark dark grapes are ripe
With a call to be yielded
To eat their darkened sweetsick.

And the poems come
When I want to live or not live well
Not when I want to write.
The sweetsick is when I live
And post-sweetsick is writings

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The reason for all this is not reasonable. The reason, strictly art, Still makes no sense to me.

The Wheel

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