a white flower grows

[revolutionrabbit]

Consider that you either write or you don't write
if you do write you are the scum of the earth
you are the future of lies, the sum of all wants
you are the murder of crows
the object of ridicule and revelation
you are the center of pestilence
the shadow of the ghost of a chance
the laughing stock of the multitudes
you are the terror scare crow on the street corner
a hallucination in broad day light
the final gasp in the witching hour
the end of a long progression of final gasps
you are the ouroboric worm in the navel of time
eating itself into eternity

the potty mouth of putrid prognosticators
the piece on the chess board that doesn't belong there
the one that changes the rules of the end game
you who are no stranger to death, who is of the devil's party
and of the vast universe of incalculable stars
you stand in the hurtling shock wave of the eschaton
and summon the primordial voice in the belly of the beast

grasp at the phantasmagoric phantoms of history and progress
as they destroy language from the inside out
you attempt to decipher the far flung fragments of revolution
for the hell of it...this poem is never anything but a poem
the dead are the dead burying dead or they are nothing at all
this poem is either dead or alive or wanted dead or alive
to say that the poem is never anything but the poem
is to say nothing at all. to say anything is the poem
or it could be the ravings of a madman
to say anything could be the grounds for death
or could be the ground of being for bedlam

a white flower grows in the infinite darkness
of the words that fell from her heart
as she passed through, coming straight through

you can only say these things because you are accursed
in the eyes of total strangers

there she goes like a languid question mark
her smile like the moon lit Nile

[dadio]

Despite that it is good to be a poet. Very good structured poem.