Find Your Center

I am speaking
can you hear?
Do you understand
the words spilling
out of my brain?
Have you given
pause to digest?
These fornication of thought
give birth to the gut,
the bastard of reason,
the copulated prodigy of poetry.
Where does the artist live
hidden behind the paper
and the ink of emolument emotion?
Have you received the grape?
This wine soaked emigrant
of despair, quackery of life,
gorged on the sibilance
of others, cannot, will not!
One chokes on the gall
of undigested prose and pontifical
lyrical verse reasoned for the sake
of chronic psychotic cleansing.
Poetry, bullshit, get a life,
read Keats, Poe, Sandburg,
Waldon, find your center.
Find your meaning.

Copyright: 2008, Donald Harbour

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