Poems of Lust, Terror and The Abyss

Copy of lotsa smoke

Variety is nutrition to an artist.  I like to write different kinds of poems, explore different kinds of feelings. I know that my mystic, Rumi-esque poems are appreciated by my audience.  I love those poems and the moments they represent. But they aren’t the whole story.  No one has ever seen this next poem.  I was once infatuated with a woman and my feelings were not reciprocated.  In fact, she was a little bit cruel and I suppose my younger and more neurotic self found that cruelty stimulating. It launched an obsession.  I didn’t stalk her, didn’t DO anything reprehensible.  It was a painful time.  I always feel as though if a particular experience of suffering gives birth to even a single good work of art, then it was worth it. Soon I will move this over to the Poetry Page and I suggest that if you like my “variety”, keep your eyes peeled because I’ll be pushing the edges and revealing stuff that has never been published, the dark secret side and, sometimes, the perverse word-hound plays just to play.


Is Love What


Monologue Of An Obsession  

July 1, 1995


This feeling lurks

in the stomach

behind the groin


this feeling hides

where least desired

when most feared

it leaps

into the head

around the heart

takes you, shakes you

by the throat

stalks and talks in shadows

eludes evades ambushes

devious consuming

this feeling hurts

to surrender

tender as a wound

it breathes

quietly, behind the door

abhors lonely vacuums

terrible cheating heating the brain

it floods with light

so sudden

dazzling colors darkest night

arrests, protests

eternal might

this feeling shaves its head

renounces, abjures,

drains, fills lungs with sound

screams, give me just one dream

or let me stop feeling this way.

It cries for peace

offers and withholds release.

This feeling is what it is.

No end, more to make,

more to spend.

This feeling is what feeling is.

What feeling.

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