Writing is not healing
Or whining in style .
It\'s bringing something back
to yourself to share
in mundane trivialities
with no morning after...
Talent doesn\'t arise
from the chaos
of an infantile machine
which only feeds the ego
but by bringing the serpent
into the house ...
I know you well, old dauber
who calls himself cursed .
You\'re just a Bukowski avatar
courting the loo lady ...
To be a liar at 20
its like setting up a date at 50 .
Without knowing that we went
coming home one night ,
and on the chat server
it\'s the void that will respond .
Or perhaps the lips
of an unfaithful android female .
baby you no longer coo
in your coffin ...
\'\' We promised it was for life ,
I\' going to die let\'s stay good friends ! \'\'
Gothic scribble for screwball
in a final bullet .
This scripture of oneself
which is nothing
but suffering in tears of sand
on the psyche mirror ...
Shadows of tragedy
without musicality and dizziness ...
Become a poet at 50
its to evoke the mumies
or summon the zombies ,
having a row with a bottle of rum ...
Postcard crucified on the fridge .
Erasure made of wind skin
in memory of a seagull in love
in the sea bruise of a Brighton
pre-war season .
Tear up that last dream
and fall asleep for ever ...