Poemander

I ain't no f*cking poet, not even I'm a novelist.

I could have given sermons, If I have been a liturgist.

Come ask my name: I've got them all.

Don't ask me where I'm from:

I'm from a place we both call home,

Go figure, go confirm.

Why do I scribble goddamn words?

I tell you, cause I've got no choice,

Cause bourbon ain't no sweet enough

To palliate rogue inner voice.

Thus voice has rasped with despair,

And ears have deafened from the smear.

Can be I even more sincere? Who am I fooling? -

- No one's here. I stand alone on this frontier.

Where have they gone, the know-it-all,

Those bastards who were riding tall?

They are as fake as their drawl.

Deep down the precipice names roll.

They whizz, they hurl and they screech,

I look at them through rending breach.

They see me standing on the ridge,

I know this rupture we can't stitch.

There ain't no choice, but follow suit.

To play this game while with clay foot

We stomp fast staking our mound,

Loose winnings buried in cold ground.

My hands may shake from sleepless nights,

Yet shots still grouping nicely, hitting tight.

I ain't no pawn in their daylight.

I used to be all ears Stravinsky,

Now blasting UGK's one day at night,

I climb the apex, like Kandinsky,

Beneath freemasons' lodge streetlight.

How could I hate? I'll wait you there.

Do winds disgust stagnated air?

Do trees abhor the falling leaves?

Does fire fume at logged trees?

On belvedere, we'll walk up there,

I'll night ignite through stratosphere.

Who am I fooling? – no one's here.

I'm waiting since on belvedere.