Late Night Poem Thoughts


is this place slightly difficult for those find it hard and who wish to retreat to a fantasy world where you don’t make decisions but instead live off pearls? That’s probably why they like acting and writing, songs about loving, transcendental meals, and whirling they delve in fantastical realms.

Reality’s scary. the Real world Smells like shit. it’s a lavatory, a Basin of misery, sadness, they struggle to inhabit.

In the real world you make decisions that hurt like a knife, they’re so bad at that. To make decisions you’re grown up; normal, clear eyed, complacent, unsullied, practical.

In the fantasy world you can grow small or big or whatever you choose; you can find a muse and play and dream and skirt round issues and wonder what spice goes with what spice or herb in what rice and it’s nice not to ponder the sweet dreaded wonder of death or her sister or some blasted blister you find on your finger or sometimes your foot when you’ve pulled off the boot and trampled the root on the pavement of Life. What is life? It’s her wife and her brother and mother and miserable t’other.

Yeats like to retreat from the dirty old seat of money and trade and he’d write of the braid than ran tight like a ribbon with no slack or giving of dropping slow wonder and soft fabric under your feet and he’d pursue the clothes heaven dropped low. And here in my kitchen I’m sitting and thinking how Cash walked the Line with his June, she was fine. And I’m late to my sleeping; my day thoughts are winking and I’m sorry to say that bricks don’t hold a sway ’cause I’m dreaming again and that’s how waves are made.

And I’m dreaming of silk, lace, calico n’ bream who flit like a dream swimming under the stream in France in a dram long ago in a past I forgoe. Now here I am and awake far to late cooking yam past its date that I’ll mash with some butter if I can but mutter the truth in my heart.

if only I knew how my grandpa did slow reading Thomas while driving and talking of ducks, the bird how she flew; in the morning she woke me, I wish she’d have told me oh where I should go; where the north wind does blow. But she sits all asunder a clap in the thunder and I sit and I ponder and wonder of how can I wander or step out of here, just step out of here.

Maybe drink one more beer; I could retreat from life, from the trouble and strife. I could pull out the knife, I could wipe out the grief.

I could play my guitar play it long play it far, make the majors the minors and then sit on a hill making mock of it all. Making mock of it all.

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