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,
quivering;

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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