You know it bleeds
to brood upon my own verses
How many times can a man suffer
from such fanatic spells of creativity
How can he possibly pass on
the products of his
all possible word-scrambling sessions
and merrily go on teasing the hapless reader
you in this case
Yet it bleeds
And it grieves me to ask you a favour
to place your arms around me
for a journey
One weeny beggar towing his wishes
to the bow of his violin
If we cannot find him
we might bump into the den
of a sycophant
a parasite living on its yesterdays
We may even chance to meet
a sweating Santa in summer
Or we may travel anywhere
with the puff of a weed
It is still bleeding my friend
and I do not know
whether my writing possesses
the fibrinogen to clog the flow
So yet again it is this hackneyed plead
of a self-obsessed narcissus
who needs you badly
in the hour of his crisis
in his empty mirror
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