Here comes another
classic case of
writer\'s block.
Cock soft,
I spew
across the
white pages.
Maybe age is
catching up
with me.
Time has been
a friend,
but I\'m only as
good as my last poem.
I long for the days
when songs filled
my heart, where every
part of me smelled
the rain and the
wet dogs, and the
streets of Spain.
The pain was always
fodder, the joy, the sadness
the madness of love and
sex and passion.
The rancid anger and rage
became the words of
a sage when I broke
out the notebook.
Not tonight, though,
I will wait for the
erection and the blood
to simmer in
the red dot on the
white snow.
Patiently waiting for
the hemorrhaging of
the soul.