poem 431 of a poem a day for 2012

painting by John Lurie ©

my insanity has become a dance party corrosion

I know the bucket holes are osmosis

but what of the tricked up fantails

along the chrome edge

of my polished painted soul

where rusted steel

meets the glass ride

Cinderella is not the only one

with an expiration date

I too, have my own midnight

and it seems it is the only

unzipped part of each day’s birth

and turn toward dawn

am I better without a heart

or an angel watching

over any part of me

am I better in backwater, bent

has heaven lent itself

a twisted insistence

has heaven meant for me

to gaze up at faded peeling ceilings

with the rain coming in

I can’t help but to want to beat

the devil at every game I can

interested in the hordes

of sycophants and the Persian rugs

every hermit wants the lighting dim

and the décor awash in the color

of burning wood

what better way, I say

to challenge my senses

what better way to overcome 

lockstep emotionless states

than by crawling in the dark

the feel of ash

and the smell of soot

everywhere, I dig into

crying is a game too

but one, I only play by myself

like every masturbatory

fantasy wavelength adjustment

I am a genius here

I stroke or peddle

I base everything

on causal chemistry

when the wind is rife with pheromones

and has little hooks catching

just the right amount of skin

to cull my humanity past bait

and into a meal

and whether it seems be

for any of you or someone else

I haven’t invented yet

it is always the manna that I want

this taste of redemption

the sweet-spill-sugar-blooms

blood allows me to sharpen

my resolve against time with

and even if I know not to fill

completely on pleasure

I try with each poem

to linger as desire might

for more of something that is

just outside the reach of reason

EJR ©