“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” (Ernest Hemingway)
The nausea is like a Lepidoptera fly,
A flutter of wings around a bulb light.
How accurate and how awfully clean.
The drawing of an inner state
Preyed by diminishing vital air
Inside a hermetic balloon of despair.
It is all only a state of ransacking mind,
What you seek, at some cost, you eventually find.
Caress my drafted pathology.
Does your skin’s receptivity
Vibrate with damaging electricity
When you grasp its amplitude?
The rushed pigeon noticed the upcoming tram,
But numbed by hunger and defeat didn’t give a damn.
An Aves individual that sucks up the water,
Feathery nimbleness and incertitudes
About next meal, shelter, random act
Of human pity or cruelty.
Is the crop milk they secret as heavenly sweet
As the headiness air, high and thin, enwreathes you in?
My necessity is my preoccupied affliction.
A diagnosis of loyal yet malleable perdition
That tears, bleeds and devours me
In talons of inky creativity.