pycho phantic heathen
Write to recover is what I always say.
Is few of my words leave me whirling with – I’m proud to park, pay and display.
Deals are made,
devils I summon.
People are abused, Charity leaps to a new order of Coven.
I write this way, with careless affray
to not lose a sense that words are tangible,
if I work my fingers to imprint my genetic copyright
Confirming my DNA.
Some might say,
I try too hard
To write for better days .
Left to my own devices. I would live in clouds wrapped up in grey hues-
a cemetery for all the left over fillings
Thrown away, because of corrosive mouth decay.
In yer face!
Borderline – on the rocks.
I write to prove I’m far removed from serving more time, in a straight jacket in New Jack City.
Gangsters running around with silver bullet signed glocks.
I’v’e spent my better days basking in previous glory .
Like butter it melts away the fear of sleeping dormant .
One wrong box and I’d have been mistaken for a Tory.
Liberal with my words, eager to serve and love all my friends with creative pulses .
Tic tacs, I guzzle-colours textured in obscure.
I fight these escapism , inauthentic, paradise bomber impulses;
To get high with — to lose track of time.
I need a potion of artificial wired, chemistry alternatives.
Usually these act as a placebo.
Serve to knock off my crown of free willed determinism.
Courage lives in a mane,
a city near Massachusetts
Puritans might discover I’m Freud in a ghostly slip.
I’ll be hung ,
Hands lie limp by my side.
Bled feathers will tickle the crowd-
Show I bluffed my way into the inner circle of creatives who have a grasp of the
Forever chasing the dragon of stream of consciousness .
My thoughts fail me,
I’m beginning to think,
I’ve become presumptuous.
The kindness in others words — to allay my anxieties,
Overwhelms me .
I tie my own tubes.
I refuse to give birth to a dancer with stubs for toes, phalanges pimped out to strike a quivering echo-like , Margot Fontaine pose.
Inner fear corroborate with the sinner without a legitimate C.V.
The Lakers swan to the crowd
I’m a nutter.
I’d crack a prince just to see a picture of a colourful scene.
Mindful – in the lines.
It’s not important.
Just a visual spray of shamanic chakras to impregnate the rainbow-I foresee.
Leprechaun leave my latin beats to breathe.
Mouth the words of soft brie , camembert and wild boar.
Grant me a baguette — riddle away, and I’ll gather my thoughts to satisfy thee.
Goddess Luna grants a cycle to merge with my rites in fertility.
Thoughts exiled to Siberia-paid to be alone.
My government saves me.
I will put down-
Though I know I won’t gamble it all away.
I win back my losses
Trust me, I know there is always another day.
Write, write , write.
Each word is a middle finger at the writers academia establishment .
I don’t want to be even almost famous.
I don’t need a book with my name on it.
I blog merely to pour my inner most thoughts out — free up my world.
It’s about as poetic as I can get.
How about I insert the word fragrant?
I’m not academic.
My passion is not systemic .
Always in a position to sky dive.
Risks thought about
After I land in the hornets hive.
Stings heal .
It reminds me I feel.
I live by my words ‘cos I’m irksome and caustic within.
I was born walking into webs of contradiction
All I beg is for is a hint of credit
For expressing myself in this audacious fashion.
I’m not here to chat ’bout literary success.-
I’m already thinking about my post party dressed as myself-
the bodacious writer ,
Who is in fact a sycophantic heathen.
*INSPIRED BY A COMPLETE MELT DOWN IN MY ABILITY TO WRITE AND FINISH MY MASTERS*
Posted on May 27, 2017, in STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS COLLECTION, THOUGHTS and tagged Creative Writing, stream of consciousness poetry, stream of consciousness writing, Writing challenges. Bookmark the permalink. 24 Comments.