like heavy curtains
weed drips itself over my consciousness.
and affords me a glimpse of the junkie poet inside.
you know the guy,
he lives in all bohemians
he’s the one with the crooked vision of the world
that walks from village to village.
lamenting all the beauty he finds and entombing it in his words.
i wanted to be the fucked up,artizan
the hip heroin addict.
carrying a notebook and broken heart
through the empty streets of Paris.
sleeping in alleyways with drunkard lecturers and the sodomites.
where real life meets real life.
i opted out i surpose
i got the J-O-B.
the leafy-greens.
the materialistic illness that befalls all who stop desiring pure art.
but inside i retain a little slice of devious/junkie/freak
a tiny flickering flame of poetry.
a dream.
Amen.