Crawl
by Tyler Berg
Crawl
Sometimes the supreme realness of living creeps in on cat paws
It coils around my innermost self, the one I keep locked away safe like Bukowski's bluebird,
And it makes my mind crawl,
Crawl to the dark places I love most, loud music and off key laughter, glimmering green and brown bottles eagerly holding the dim lights overhead inside themselves like ransomed stars.
Indeed it crawls when I know too much. When truth lingers like a bad taste on the tongue, it makes me crawl to neon signs and rain slicked sidewalks shining like some shortcut to Shangri La.
I crawl to what made me, to the safe, smoky heat of my spiritual infancy.
I am no more than a brief, beautiful beast born of alt rock and profanity, a mere crawling creature of slurred poetry and hot blood on bleached floors. Some walk steadfast into the unknown, uncertain but eager, not me, I crawl. Grinning crooked into the void.
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Author's Note
An uncomfortable piece of poetry that found me during a sleepless night. Written in the span of ten minutes between two cigarettes and presented as always without proper punctuation, format or review.
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When truth lingers like a bad taste on the tongue, it makes me crawl to neon signs and rain slicked sidewalks shining like some shortcut to Shangri La.
The last line is magnificent. *
Sometimes review strips away the raw. The real. *
I crawl. Grinning crooked into the void.
*
Very Slayer with thrash but no power chords which must certainly find reality with (not in) Bukowski's bluebird. Nice touch with that.
An amazing closing sentence - "Grinning crooked into the void." I like it.