Take the remnants of your dreams

and attempt to create awe.



From reels of twisted sex

to Lynchian tales of terror,

flying past memories and fun;

pick the few you can picture

in the panels of your story –

narration will come with time.



I see a million Romantic Feel-good scripts

but where has all the tragedy gone?



I see mine as a Black Comedy

with shades of slick surrealism –

Avant-garde pretentious shit.



I’ll bang my head on a doorway

and tumble down cold steps

in typical slapstick fashion,

only to break both of my legs,

dooming myself to a forever-state

of crippled half-consciousness

in a world of rainbow portals, talking walls

and paper galoshes built to shelter me

from unstoppable acid rain.



Soon after, apotheosis will hit me

in floods of adolescent wishes;

or so my story tells me.



My happiness dwells in ink,

as does my weakness;

so I think Robert Graves

is best narrating my finale –



“There’s no money in poetry,

but then there’s no poetry in money, either.”