my desent into pleasure
Posted: February 5th, 2011, 7:01 pm
the liquid crystal
greenish-yellow display
the only energy
able to pierce the silence
the blackness
save for the chesty breathing
the woman lying next to me
1: 51 AM
a quick semi-mental calculation
tells me
Mr. Consciousness took control
42 minutes ago, and from my
vast experience in the insomniac arts
I extrapolate further slumber
is merely fantasy, sleep
this night is out of the question
not in the stars not in the playing cards
42 minutes, like forty two pounds
of junk mail
sitting on your ribcage
43, 44, 45
my mind locked
on my dearth of poetic coif
the lack of a signature brushstroke
no technique, no hallmark of color
no flurry of linguistic swordsmanship
with flamboyant slashes
of grace and unrivaled beauty
nothing unmistakable by even
the most undiscerning purveyor
of complimentary babble
no fingerprints all over the place
all over the page, the oily residue
of genius panache, i mean
undetectable with forensic powder
a dusting of poetastic brilliance
to study under a microscope
to fall upon the outstretched tongue
1 Hour 29 Minutes
a crack of light
under the kitchen door
and I am ready for dairy suicide
I have buried my insatiable sorrow
in a gallon of French Vanilla Ice Cream
but that's not all !
I've slathered it in El Paela Dulce de Leche
Toffee Grande topping sauce
all woven together into a big
fuck you of tablespoon magic
that would make picasso cringe
jealous with rage, rotating
in his mausoleum, and I think
to myself
so what !
greenish-yellow display
the only energy
able to pierce the silence
the blackness
save for the chesty breathing
the woman lying next to me
1: 51 AM
a quick semi-mental calculation
tells me
Mr. Consciousness took control
42 minutes ago, and from my
vast experience in the insomniac arts
I extrapolate further slumber
is merely fantasy, sleep
this night is out of the question
not in the stars not in the playing cards
42 minutes, like forty two pounds
of junk mail
sitting on your ribcage
43, 44, 45
my mind locked
on my dearth of poetic coif
the lack of a signature brushstroke
no technique, no hallmark of color
no flurry of linguistic swordsmanship
with flamboyant slashes
of grace and unrivaled beauty
nothing unmistakable by even
the most undiscerning purveyor
of complimentary babble
no fingerprints all over the place
all over the page, the oily residue
of genius panache, i mean
undetectable with forensic powder
a dusting of poetastic brilliance
to study under a microscope
to fall upon the outstretched tongue
1 Hour 29 Minutes
a crack of light
under the kitchen door
and I am ready for dairy suicide
I have buried my insatiable sorrow
in a gallon of French Vanilla Ice Cream
but that's not all !
I've slathered it in El Paela Dulce de Leche
Toffee Grande topping sauce
all woven together into a big
fuck you of tablespoon magic
that would make picasso cringe
jealous with rage, rotating
in his mausoleum, and I think
to myself
so what !
