Epiphany of the Creative Morgue

Empty out my cauldron mind
And label it: “Infinity”
Spread me like an orange rind—
The herald of precocity.

I’ve drunk bile in my bones
At the grandest of delusions,
And reached alto in the Thrones
To clamber up confusions.

Down the river-barge I gait
To the questioning of Silence,
(A brief affair fall to spate
Volcanic nodes of violence.)

My fetus heart gone flaccid
At this chilling lack—emotions,
Has placed my soul a-placid
With each dizzying of notions.

To douse my head, and wipe my pen;
To write—to think!—of better men.

Befuddlement!—my Muse

Follow me, unwieldy dreams!—
O’er unconscious ink,
Through Flanders Fields, each lined in reams,
To pivot on a brink.

My harp of gold Adonis hair
Has only left me mute;
My thoughts placed out in travels bare,
A scry that’s failed acute.

I’ve watched your holes—yes, pits agape
Were windows to my soul,
That poured upon, in every shape,
A lost, unseemly role.

Yet dry I’ve been in all of this:
The pouring and the draught.
An aimless mind has burned amiss
In every ingle spot.

To ply its trade with pigeonholes
Where ruined children play,
(Deploring practice in the night
Embracement in the day.)

All of our ruined Muse polis
Deluge upon debris
Of shipwrecked minds, in their solace
Were once sought out by me;

To stake a claim upon their earth,
Suspending my creative birth.

Words to Love on Her Apparent Nature

And enchantment in your blisses
Stupors understanding,
While chills from wildernesses
Doles out a second-handing—
Narcotic to indolent minds,
Who care for this crash landing.

This is love!—or so they speak
Of treachery and flame.
Wrapped in gauze, their souls will seek
To do it once again;
Apothegm to all mankind
Of contradiction, plain.