Unrehearsed birth, my talons submerged under the damp earth. Time stuttering in reverse. I curse underneath my breath. The pieces of my skeletal thoughts and fragmented verses, that’s all that’s left. aligned with the far left. A tortured scribe; a stubborn narrator. A stalled elevator. Suspended, earth-bound by purgatory’s story. Immersed in cauldrons of selves. Ideas stacked one on top of the other like disheveled book shelves. I delve into the wells of hypocrisy, like “Why do artists suffer the worst fate under this veil of democracy?” Descended from the beat of the drum, expressing real life experience and spitting out street poetry, laced with what some might call cynicism. Well that’s better than oppression or fascism. My world’s a collision of hope and despair blended into my expression, to avoid depression or anger…like a downpour in a desert drought.
I pick the pen over the sword, but sometimes the sword looks tempting. Reinventing the shape of the language, my slanguage of metaphors explores the spaces between politically correct and obscene. Can I say what I think? Just like a right-wing think tank comes up with new and exciting ways to squash young talent. Destroy those who question authority. Hard not to feel subordinated when you’ve been educated by life, not school. Retooling my arsenal of syllables. If you think that you’re saved, then maybe you’re gullible. I find idiocy hard to swallow, but I refuse to wallow in self-pity, staying sharp like a razor’s edge. Dredging up the mystery of centuries of knowledge. Make a “to do list” or a “refuse to do list” and let yourselves be heard. Conjugate my madness like a verb. I’m absurd, like a caged bird singing about freedom. Yeah, more like serfdom or slavery.
Studious with these vocal chords used for a purpose. I resurface, then back down into the underground without a sound. Analyze with these Jade eyes. My eye on the prize. I’m broke, but wise. Never in the grip of vices that can tighten like vice grips. Slips and tangles like tangled hair. Sometimes life just ain’t fair. Hour by hour my mind turns sour. Refrain the echoes of my disdain. Viciously entropy and anguish take over your brainwaves, like sitting too damn close to an old microwave. The brave are few.. I get misinterpreted or misconstrued by society.
I try to win with a weaker hand, contemplating in quicksand. I understand torment. I reinvent and ventilate my rage. I won’t ever act my age. This street corner is as good as any stage. Page after page I engage like the Zen master. It’s the pursuit of happiness that we’re all after, or maybe it’s stacks of greenbacks; romance from fictional paper backs. Train tracks are becoming obsolete, but are a metaphor for freedom and exploration. Navigating territories unknown. I feel abused and dirty. Beaten down like a crumbling city pay phone.
I meditate and regenerate my time and space, like a black board that’s been erased, and replaced by new ideas and new perspectives. The struggle is more than can be said. Try to stay fed, and outta the red. Shoes on my feet. Hat on my head. Earn my daily bread. Climbing through wormholes, dead sea scrolls. The hands of time creak and scrape forwards. My future is hopeful and fatal. The skeletal cradle’s namesake is Muddled, like puddled water. Don’t follow me I’m lost. This is the cost. This throne is made of flesh, blood and bone. My head’s stuck in the wishing well. The night sky sends me its charms, I try to stay out of harm’s way. Night turns back into day and I wonder where the Magik comes from. Where it goes to? A metronome, a metaphor, a closed-door. Climbing into bed, not sure that I can endure another. Back to life, onward and upward. My words an extension. Fallen into the realms of ghosts. A ghost walker walking through the void. Death is the fate we can’t avoid. Trembling in the grips of panic and a sense that you’re moving into oncoming traffic.