I am dumb
with wonder, that I'm
not torn asunder, that my brain and body don't burst, under the
torment of the demon that lives in me.
He longs to be free, struggling clawing, scratching to be released, shrieking at me to write the words that reside inside.
I tried hard to drown him with vodka and Guinness Stout, but he learned to swim.
So once again, we toast the night alone by candlelight, as I read Sylvia Plath while he takes a bath in dark Irish beer. He knows that writing's fantastic, orgasmic, electric, and we cum together as he whispers sweet prose while doing the back float in a sea of Absolut.
I'm destitute, but he doesn't care, just as long as I share his seed that spills from my quill.
And so, I hear his shrill voice in the middle of the night, screaming, screeching, write motherfucker,
write.
-
Author:
Thomas W Case (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: January 31st, 2024 12:11
- Comment from author about the poem: Check out my book, Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems on Amazon.com
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 19
- Users favorite of this poem: Introverted Sage
Offline)
Comments5
Your writing always reminds me of Charles Bukowski...
I love Buk. Thank you.
Maybe Bukowski really is one of your muse lol fabulous the emotions and imagery superb.
Thank you, Teddy. Much appreciated.
I was gonna say carthartic but no , I changed my mind. Fuck that demon ( I know it’s an invention that is a coping grizzly ) but if it pushes promising prose then I vote corruptly.
Thank you, kind Sir.
A good drink always assists the pen...I love everything about this poem...well done Thomas
Thank you, John.
I hate Bukowski, in broadest generality, but I still love this poem!
I also approve of your taste in beers, very Dionysian!
Thank you very much.
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