Notes to the Dead
I am pulsing with that
late night wush wush
blood rush from a razor's edge
slicing and dicing fugue states
like the manly mustache
from the many many infomercials
besides-
what good is inspiration
when nobody but the faded dude
gives a shit, the universe
doesn't
give
a
shit
either.
but here we are,
squatting and writing poems
like a forlorn little boy
scared of the thunder
and the words he hears
that he can't understand
what good is inspiration
when the tools of your craft
can be carelessly left to
energies wild and shocking
when the old trees weep and
their true calling is pissed on
by the romping tigers of the future,
dead and smart, cunning and cold.
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Other stories by Shawn Misener
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A pulsing energy all the way through gives this real conviction, makes a strong claim on poetry.
Thank you
Powerful, beautiful. Once you start reading this you can't stop. It goes right to the end.
Dunno how I missed this, but I'm glad I caught it before it slid off the feed. I found myself nodding affirmatively, with conviction, and will do so again when I read it again! And again!
**
a lot of passion here. *
a lot of passion here. *