“Sitting beneath the Dead Moon” The Schizo Kid Poetics Vol 3

I left a trail of paintings behind me most of last year. this is a cyclops I donated to Veith Gallery in Halifax.

I left a trail of paintings behind me most of last year. this is a cyclops I donated to Veith street Gallery in Halifax.  Spray paint on a wooden panel.  2014

Etchings, sketchings and silently the dead moon waits for the password.  It takes it’s pound of flesh. Losing my breath. My disease makes me want to leave.  Just gotta roll up my sleeves. Starting to believe in this graveyard of dead leaves.  She holds me back from the ledge.  Back from the edge.  Out of service, this machine blinks in the dark.  Suffer for my art,  So, Do you wear the mark ? Mirrored sideways reflecting the image looking curiously back towards my line of sight.

Invisible scars, keep my pen scratching between the notebook’s pale blue lines.  I recoil, I try to unwind. I stay standing studious and blind.  I find the best thoughts surface when I let go and give up…Fill up my broken cup.  Moving with the tangled weight of joy and doubt. Making sanity a liar, crawling, soul searchin’, ain’t nothing that I’ve found.  This  Automatic writing dangles from my finger tips, eclipsed by the dead moon.  I’m in the sanctuary of the bastard sage.  Infinite like a painting seen through the eyes of the ages. Pages and pages tossed like refuse on my living room.  Lifting my head up to stare madness and torment straight in the eyes.

The information, and the intonation of my voice.  It’s echoed through this hollow space.  Ethereal and Crushed under the vice of life.  Lifeless, the solitary artist.  The moon restorative to the man spinning the cornered narrative.  It resonates as the words bend under my pen.  Spent the dawn, sent the demons home to reflect on what they’ve done.  Books on shelves, manuscripts.  I dove into the torrent of the writer’s room, the place where the desperate joy sits.  Where thoughts are hatched and peek through the winding thatch.  The phantom at my side, to whom I confide.  The place where I step cautiously inside, so as to not be swallowed by the empty page.

Explain, explain my refrain.  Drained out the urge to stop to lay blame.  Unhitch me from your whipping post.  The Phantasm  of dreams that lay dormant.  What spooks you the most, the teething ghost.  I’m the pale neighborhood demon host.  The dusk, the glowing dust, I must somehow turn my poisoned thoughts back to trust.

The opinions of me and my minions seem to fall on deaf ears.  The constant pull of torment and fear.  Just when you think you’re in the clear, the dark rider never fails to appear.  I erode and extend my verse to you like a romantic gesture under the lamplight.  It’s a fixed fight.  Did ever feel you can shine like a new dime that’s been doing time?  Climbing out of bed to face the demands of isolation’s request.  Just do my best, keep the cards close to my chest.  I look to the crooked sky into the crow’s naked eye.  The burial of  my liberty is all that’s ever offered.

Shape-shifting metaphors behind locked doors.  Left behind to cringe and explore. The duty and the abandon.  My resignation is forth coming. On the mend, around the bend. Back to give the eulogy, purge the entity that is me.  Shed my skin and begin anew.  I walk in the shadowed narrative that’s true.  The shade of my eyes is black and blue.  Deer in the headlights.  Snake bitten and smitten with you my love.  Late into the night just laying in the bed, gladly nursing love bites.

The Schizo Kid  2015


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