little boys and psychopaths

nervous frantic, panicked madness
trembling, quaking insane

smooth wind flowing
through cavernous tunnels
of mucous membranes;

cryptic scribbling, struggling
for the slightest control,
mastery of the pen;

pouring through tomes of own ego,
bearing open wounds to salt
probed with dirty fingers
through gaping gashes;

who’s the little boy?

tripping out to lyrical wisdom
understanding inspiration
chemical coolly,
electric acid ballads
love street serenade;

dreaming of the abandoned heart,
operatic witch rite of sacrifice,
marriage and fire,
ebullient over the end,
slow heart pumping
song injection,
quivering through howl –
swigging brandy

so conscious of every nerve,
opening doors sneaking photographs –
a picture for the first book jacket,
thrilled to be embraced in the poem
of the psychopathic madman

pretending to write;
driven blind by a smoky muse,
tracing words as they pre-consciously flash,
mind speeding faster, hand faster, pen
each outrunning the other;

legs aching for sleep, neon mind
aching with madness and
forgotten lines;
techno-oppressive plastic prison,
isolated void of free floating visions

twisting walls with me inside;
shivering ecstasy over
dimensional images,
sleep pushing my dreams
to your real,

probing deeper,
intoxicated with insanity;
skull splitting fingers prying –
wake up!
eyes wide in dilatory hunger

anticipatory of benzedrine howls,
little boys and psychopaths
hang on a cliffs edge of judgement,
true gods shot down
in bloody assassinations
or conspired overdoses;

the saints all sleep
when sinners walk,
religion is dead in a history book,
love a lost conceit;
flowery ballads and epigraphs.

mad prophet scribbling
clairvoyant would be’s and never were’s;
nerves tingling, palms dripping,

soft posters bleed fluorescent souls
while hours dry up
under electric bulbs,
soon to wake but never slumbered.

every minute equally horrible and magnificent,
falling slowly in quivering ripples.

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