Epistle to the prince of poets

  Dear chat !

Your comment revolves around emotional desolation

and inability to access inspiration and deep feelings .

 Sad repletion of unartistic  vitality turned into a sham .

      ----------------------------------------------

I love poetry that outlet for the useless 

sung by a supermarket troubadour 

on a three broken strings mandolin .

It sounds like a furtive glance 

that slips into a blouse 

 desiring a nipple that will be never climbed.

As for me ,I signed A web of contradictions 

with master Satan prince of scribblers .

 The Serpent shows leniency ,

making everyone believe,they have talent.

( I am sorely lacking in this,regard when winter comes !)

In its orchard ,for some, fruit is sweet and juicy 

for others filled with biterness and envy ...

  But don't we all enjoy this apple of deceit ?

I know a benevolent intelligence that gives wit to fools.

Captives of the subtle strategy that makes us believe

in the dreams of children that applaud 

the white cloud entrance ...

Just a poor mask hidding the tears of a pathetic jester...

 children will grow up while continuing 

to believe in the truth of lies ...

 touching the frozen body of a birth annoucement

alongside a mummy with smudged makeup ,

they will become poets to rediscover 

 the merry melody lyrics ...

  Baudelaire drags me into the unfathomable abyss

of decomposed  compulsion 

and Sylvia Plath in psychiatric compassion ...

I love poetry when it places buboes on beauty .

  Angel of light ,illusionist from iota to lambda...

Misleading us about the departure schedule .

I love poetry ,when it stumbles 

 on rainy madness pavement .

 To throw oneself into the embrace 

of a scabrous enlightenment ...

  The devil keeps on laughing !