It’s weirdly bright outside
I imagine that the world is hungover
I want to hear all the stories
What makes the universe get up
In the morning
I often wish my work was
Something of the greats
Another mindstate to be had
The writing good or bad
A taste of the ancients
I forgot myself early today
Cried with my head hanging over
I knew that it meant it would
Never be the same
Reflecting on what could be good
Comes from the terrible bad
So I don’t throw the unclear away
I read over it sometimes
Like a worthless piece of art
My critical eyes abusively
Unsure of what is good
Reading through it the heart laughs
“You thought this was worth keeping!”
It’s true. Some if it is not bad
It will read differently
When we’re eighty years young
A little displaced like an
Upside down lawnmower
Making my way
Cutting through the air
Something with a purpose
But nothing to receive it
Where’s the landline
My grounding wire
© GÄ
Poétique 