in my room

a poem with little virtue and substantial character flaws.

Prozo the great,
                      with five thighs
and a Roman snout.

 

little women would murder him with their
snooty tongues and awkward glances
at his junk.

 

that's not to say, as to say; is said

 

that we are not of drugs
are we mr. dali?
 
who dreamt in paint and sculpted a cemetery
for all the dead statues of this 'verse.

 

dripped to dry on the groaning line of extraneous
thought. sent a message forewarning god of the
apocalypse...and brought to us the illusion
of insanity.

 

that was when? dear deirdre...

 

 i have never loved you

 

and this all but a pastiche of my soul,

 

but do not eat it. it will burn your tongue.
pass the salt.
this coming thursday I will sit alone in my room, 
prepared to write, let a breeze flow through the window.

 

in my room, where solitude feels like a curse. in it,
like virginia in the bathtub floating somewhere else.