Stream Of Consciousness

A blank, forlorn page

Is always a good omen

For writing poetry

That don't mean shit.

 

Especially when you're

Anxious, depressed, schizoid &

Fucked up in the right-left places

 

Now I'm no Cohen or Bukowski or Plath

But everyone can still bleed

With a pen on a paper

 

Like that leaky faucet

In your bathroom

That drenches your skin with

A spray of bleak despair

 

My fart smelts into a

Cup of frosted, wild honey-pie

Sparkling with a pinch of

Potassium ferrocyanide as

 

Flames roam about Neverwhere

Maybe I need a Roger's Thesaurus

'Coz my vocabulary's down to zilch

(Yeah, bite me)

 

What these lines are supposed to be

Even I don't know

 

The piper tunes you out

Deports you to a

Land of neurotic dreams

 

In a crimson palace

Of Crystallized fog

The Grim-reaper proposes to thee

 

"Will thou forever 

be mine?"…