04-06-2023, 09:58 PM
In those days, euphoria came easily:
a poem written to a soundtrack of rain,
or the sight of my muse,
a 60s Aphrodite in black stockings
disguising imagined ivory limbs.
Days echoed with laughter
and novelty, nights I read Hesse
while incense filled my lair with the East.
I didn’t need sex or drugs
to trigger explosions of the new,
I could summon them, almost at will.
Now rain douses the fires of experience,
the only laughter I hear comes from a cruel sky.
Poems must be cut from from my skin
and my muse is an old woman somewhere
who never knew my name.
a poem written to a soundtrack of rain,
or the sight of my muse,
a 60s Aphrodite in black stockings
disguising imagined ivory limbs.
Days echoed with laughter
and novelty, nights I read Hesse
while incense filled my lair with the East.
I didn’t need sex or drugs
to trigger explosions of the new,
I could summon them, almost at will.
Now rain douses the fires of experience,
the only laughter I hear comes from a cruel sky.
Poems must be cut from from my skin
and my muse is an old woman somewhere
who never knew my name.