MY BLOG WAY, DONT TELL ME WHAT TO DO ITS MY GRAMMER MY WAY

CURRENT-

SEA WAVE

 

He gripped the rubber coolant band

And sipped fom his well staired coffee

cupThe wounds on his back/bottom were

Roaring red like a severe sunstroke but

this was below the skin he sat upright

behind his blacked-out curtains.

 

Allergic to the sun, his bedsores 

began To calm with the coolant crème 

put on By the care givers who called 

four times a day, he felt his wounds 

were leathered tethered he thought in 

Art-music-poetry

Like Icarus who flew to close to the sun

He flew to close Event horizon darkness

      Within dark the Tao- true pathway

 So he thought but he wasn’t going to

shove his view down your throat.

Like the hide of pigskin, he wrote

In a collection called ‘Kill House'.

He lived for his image poeartry as

He called it. Although his bedsores -

Were bedsore his filthy real poems

Gave him hope in a hopeless world.

Man-shell.

 

A massive stroke left him this way

Paralyzed- flat on my back like a gang

of four Paralyzed-damaged goods at

Least I’m not a silly TRIVIAL pop song

He thought, I would hate that.

 

I-car-us poetry made me whole

                 

Black-hole.