Phoebus

In dreams of bedlam, it was said that the poem speaks the poet, and it did then-- but now Only the thought remains, fruitless and dead; only the thought remains, narrow and blind, reflecting a broken image. Cigarette smoke, methylated vapors intermix. I hunger for warm, fresh-spilt blood, yearning to be a savage waiting patiently to deliver the mother-fucking coup de grace-- but Only the thought remains, fruitless and dead; only the thought remains, narrow and blind, lost in dreams of bedlam. The voices of dead sons travel the theta waves of my freaky brainspace. They say that a poet, far removed from his poem, reveals himself, undistorted and completely unaware; crafting poems that express poetry in life: the thoughts of brainsick men, of common folk, of shallow women, greedy politicians and ones obsession with love, with sex, with money, family, delusions of god, anything, everything, whatever your mind can possibly imagine-- but In the end the thought remains fruitless and dead; in the end the thought remains, narrow and blind, reflecting a broken image. In the end a poem is empty; its meaning twisted, saying absolutely nothing.