You can’t help but wonder,
If a writer writes because words are his drugs
If you look harder,
Deep into the chasms of individual intention
We look to excrete the things,
That bind us
The very knowledge that we hold dear,
Is what binds us

Most concoctions of lingual wonder,
Are blasphemies in time
Decorated with candor and innocent chirping,
To instigate the wondrous
In seeking hearts,
To captivate the broken,
The mad in the heat of life’s sun,
To show the way to stars,
With a sense of gullible decency
To elate and intoxicate the curious,
And to impress the bored

The world cannot exist without inspiration,
At least the way we know it
Every man seeking fervently,
For the heroic
For magic in these years of endless bore,
For a sense of the excellent,
When every movement,
On this dull canvas of activity,
Seems gray, distorted,
And somewhat senseless
As we are tossed above and below,
From summer to winter,
Unknowing of ourselves,
Of the true things that we are,
Not simply packages boned into skin and flesh,
Not simply that,
But with a hope of being,
Something,
More heroic, or at least, lasting

We cannot help but wonder,
Over that evening whiskey
If this entire hoax of living,
Was made by us or something else
But wondering is that very thing,
That creates this torment,
We’ve so lovingly named,
Suffering,
Pain,
Misery

It’s over if you look at it once,
At the whole sham of things
Without whisky and rhyme,
If we see it once,
It will be over

The delights of sweetly-clad women,
And candy and wine,
The many tastes of ice-cream,
And the stench of war and poverty
The many romances of art and revolution,
The chastities of morality and culture
If we see it once,
It all ends

But it ends to begin what?
There is no question like that,
You cannot ask such things
It’s over

Rabbits eating carrot at midday,
Know this truth,
And still love and eat,
And run around,
Like yesterday never was,
And tomorrow will never be

Whiskey teaches you nothing,
That the pale winds,
Of this virgin summer,
Cannot

Just one look,
It will be over

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