I am a figure of his former self
Existing only in sepia tone.
Watery brown pigments loosely form ink blot.
The crazy see only a penis with wings doing battle with Jesus.
Jesus indeed, for this is my washed up form slipping from
the page before my eyes and behind them. Down, down, down into the eternal
waste basket of obscurity.
I am surrounded by maniacs who attended too many shit rock concerts, who took too many drugs, who never lived long enough to see the foul choice that was their mullet hairstyle.
They sway back and forth, lighter in hand, with the loved
up, blank and misguided eyes of a Burt Potter paradise. Too old to fuck with,
they know I will burn
Scraggly, matted, salt drenched beard
A beach comber
A day dreamer, easily put off task by self
30 minutes of distraction etched out on page
Little point
No conclusion
Clearly a waste of time trying to write a poem today
Time for a sandwich!
