There’s only some forty more pages left to fill in this notebook I got back in January. On average it seems I go through around that many pages a week, give or take days and papers. Anyway I decided to do a 40 line poem as a way to coincide with the limited time.
One week sleeps into late day, two nights all awake—
Third much of the same, occasionally crashing into a comatose state,
Conscious again before too long, too much too soon;
Too little and too early, why bother finding party or comradery?
What’s truly bothering is the practicality of a purple pen—
Smooth and spitting out ink, cleaned out down to the last drop…
Time moves rapidly in frozen mind-play:
Past and present blur as a future momentarily concurs,
Blots and smeared papers, stained hand sides,
For my own private eyes
Live a little, die a thousand times and revive: rewrite
Scribbling out stupidities, evident mistakes—
Shown shit-shot, candid calamity and beautiful brevity,
Youthful nuisances, minded turbulence: reconfigured truths—
Re-arranged attitudes and unconscious allusions;
Cat-curious amidst confusion;
Point on paper unleashing recreation:
Pint of this, hint of that— interpersonal correlation,
Odd lack of initial understanding—
Constant conceptual mining
Minced misunderstandings, collected intellectual entropy—
Cultivated clarity with continual correction,
Biological computer, handwritten invigoration;
Sober and stoned, added combined comprehension,
Cautious perception in cynical self-recognition—
Pattern-porn checkered and torn:
Poured out passion; scripted convictions,
Contradicted end-missions;
Shredded shrink, dipped feet loosely sink
Persisting proof, grandiose and grotesque:
Banal bullshit and gray gaiety—
Spills, savored sips of ever-intaken coffee,
Ingested liquid-literary sanity;
Black envy and calmly smoking,
Eloped knowing with missing a million marks—
Paper pulpit, flammable consultant;
Frayed flames, stoked dust long after the smoke
Indifferently uplifting self-psychoanalysis
Forty more pages to fill and never miss
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