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.
