19
Jan
10

This Means Dead

To all the great advice I’ve been given:

This Means Dead

A cigarette is beautiful.
A thing that unites me with
The back-alley crosseyed man
Searching my dumpster.
When he asked me for one,
I affirmed and thought about tossing it
And my lighter to him.
But that thought was inhuman.
Make no mistake, your relationships
Are the heaviest
Components in your life
No, I have no change
For your booze well pockets.
I have none, change.
The beautiful things that bring us together
Love, sex and cigarettes.
Et cetera, that make us ache.
Those must be beautiful.
The most inventive poets
Must know received forms
To rebel against.
I have none,
Change. I’m learning that writing
Is not poetry, diary
Entries are not art forms.

I know you don’t have a thing
Until it can be given. To control
What could control you. I cannot
Give up this writing. In that vein,
I’m told a life is not life
Until lived. To me, this means
Dead.

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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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