notes on the poet's heart.

the poet practises a secret art, hidden deep within his groins, a world of lucid dreams and magical spells cast to no one but himself and that last final patron his friend in those long nights on empty streets the moon; and she, that moon, moves every drop of blood in him as she swings about on her orbits of the skies, transfixes his eyes to stare bleary drunk the whole world disposed to every word that he springs from the well of the soul out to the silent unhearing air but what can it matter if noone hears or he never writes down those lines that have his spine all a singing and all a tingle-jangling self obsessed half the time and cold stinging sober longing for the release of her giant orbit all the rest...

the poet speaks in codes and encriptions, and always i'm sure in his deepest confessions fears nothing more than the breaking of that code, for what use could his encription machine be then if its meanings and noise were ringing loud down those peaceful moonlit streets cluttered up in the bars and dukeboxes and whores and lepars of society... what use would it all be then?

sad truth dear poet it would be a great use and the world would rock happier on the tragedies of life's seas for knowing the mystic language you yourself taught your pen to speak, but for you it would be over, for you only death awaits now, only release into the orbits of invisible sky.