... addiction ..., ... anger ..., ... Applachia ..., ... beauty ..., ... death ..., ... experimental ..., ... God ..., ... life ..., ... lips ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ..., ... relationships ..., ... religion ..., ... the South ..., ... time ..., ... weed ..., ... whiskey ..., ... written under the influence ...

bedlam January

My demagoguery is
always intentional.

My poetry is a damned
demagogue.

It’ll pull you, unwilling
into my sordid
lust for breasts and the
insatiable hunger for absolution.

And should I spend the
whole day musing
on the silky forgotten strands
of a glowing spider’s
web you would do well
not to read a single word.

In your silly, busy bustle
you may

find yourself in
intoxicating and wholly
unexpected rapture
at the queer beauty
of this solemn Earth and your

infinitesimal mark here.

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One thought on “bedlam January

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