Blubbering Idiot

poem

Blubbering Idiot

Deadly, twisting, turning, flailing,

Like a branch in the wind. I'm turning like a

Top around my mind. Is it cracking or just bleeding and what

Is the difference between lust and despair? Why do I need a name

If you are just going to judge me by it and label me a stupid

Anglo? Because of that am I racist since I have a Scot's last name?

I've seen the dead bands playing their aged poetry. Not in their

Prime, they make me hate them and their outdated inscriptions.

Direct confrontation doesn't work anymore towards finding

The door to that other world so hinting until the truth

Surfaces must be the only way. Worlds blurring before my eyes,

I don't know the truth.