A
poet walks from eight till six
a
dullard, smiling, doing tricks
exalted
dreams and humbled skill
a
happy-meal and a happy pill
One
liners flutter by like moths
The
radio zaps them dead
The
sun crawls slowly past the blinds
The
roach-coach brings him bread
The
poet smells of solvents, sweat
The
evening looms his mind is set
Until
he punches out and sees
The
setting sun and naked trees
A
poet creeps from six till ten
a
wall-fly in the devil's den
The
bread-crumb trails of love and glory
erased
by vultures, that's his story
Thanks
for nothing, man and muse
Their
souls wait on a leash
Inside
they speak of nothing close
Stay
close but out of reach
The
poet smells of poisons yet
He
stays to get his wuthers wet
Then
marches cold the oblivious night
The
buzz tossed off, the paces tight
A
poet floats from ten till six
The
moments come in pops and clicks
Riddles
and adventures all
An
endless flight, a bottomless fall
Come,
devils, with their lies and tests
He
triumphs but he dies
Here
magic is in every hand
His
virtue heaven tries
The
poet smells of blood and smoke
He
has slashed and burned and seldom spoke
Until
the clock is loud and lit
And
all that comes to mind is “shit.”
The
poet toils from six till eight
Through
toilets, train rides, thoughts of fate
Remembers
not a single thing
And
this the man who would be king
Illusions
call to make them real
He
squanders his career
If
love and wealth elude him
Someone
always buys him beer
The
poet smells of shaving cream
Reduced
to what he's made to seem
Till
fancies and free moments join
His
pockets full of foreign coin
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