On Lyricism


I often find myself lost, holding
A pen in one hand, full to the brim with
The blood of my dying muse,

And a cigarette in the other,
Sending tenuous strands
Of white smoke into the ceiling,
As if it were a diminutive village
A day after a fiery plunder.

In those insipid times, I scratch my head,
Run my fingers through my hair,
Across my scalp,
In search of undead fissures
To reach inside
And retrieve memories and metaphors.

I often end up with a hummingbird
In my hand,
Its little wings quivering ever so softly,
Before being bound to an eternal stasis.

Is this perhaps another valid metaphor?

The empty paper before me,
Next to an unempty ashtray,
Begs for justice.

"Creativity is a temporary salvation
From the claws of death," Cioran wrote
In his twenties.

The claws are around my neck;
My eyes are flickering.
I often find myself wondering,
Wondering why
It's taking too long.

- Feb 09, 2023