we drank and drank soughtoblivion but none came
nor euphoria nor
altered plane
just
a steady numbing yet i
heard it all and saw
it all missed not
a single
thing
he was indeed a poet of
no mean proportion
a short-lived van
gogh of
words
bent to self-destruction on
his path to knowing
no mouth just lips
a line drawn
thin
lids distort the sound of eye
crepe covers brittle bones
dry laughter dying
hardly heard at
all
times i wonder why we bother
what is the draw spoken raw
pleasure pain parallel of
love and hate vicarious
life
do we want too much to feel or
taste anything that we take up
everything so greedily we
chase the siren’s
call
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