I will never write the epic romantic poem filled with beauty

My pessimism too strong to put pen to paper

But honesty is something I have when these words fall down

And paint infinitesimal murals along lined pages obscured

I have little in the way of hiding the things I want to say

But to relish in nature’s beauty, to swim in the rainy tears

Of an august evening on a pine drenched mountain in Norway

Is not in my nature. Mother nature’s nature is in my blood

And my guts have no glory If I try to be some kind of


About these things

I aint the saintly writer full of odes and loving tears

For lost loves and encroaching years dwelling over misspent decisions

I’ve got lacklustre provisions I’ve got demonic visions

That crawl up my thumbs and feel my pulse

With sharpened fingernails

I’ve got ripped sails and the wind behind me just runs on through

In drafts that push everything forward as I step back

Through light backed doorways that lead to majority nothing

Splendid, one thinks, too true these brinks pushed towards

with an itching face constant itching dust in the hair

of golden cherubum gathering up dust in dusty shacks

filled with worms on hooks looking down from webs trapped

like bats on the wing

with the voice to sing I could relish in the loving harmonics

of the universe’s universal language but at the back

of my throat lives the toad in a hole too big not to fall into

in to the light into the night the nighthowlers prowl

with greedy fingers all lingering behind the pests on our shoulders

I’m nearly thirty

not just another year older.

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