The perverted introvert
and his one-legged woman,
Take a spark of desire
for an erotic omen.
Nervous and nauseous
they fail in their passion,
To lie in their blood
How lucky the child who can find delight
in the mechanism of a folding chair,
an empty box
or a colored stick.
Excited by the knowledge that
he has a room of his own,
a mother in the kitchen,
a toothbrush in the bathroom.
Wandering happily across the floor
in no certain direction,
singing rhymes he doesn't understand,
stopping to watch his breath on the window.
Finding excitement in his daily routine
of watering his plant
and a bath every night.
What a shame to grow up
and curse the chair for its $15 per/mo.
Methedrine's my great white whale
And I am Ahab as I sail,
Obsessed with this elusive monster,
To my death and points seen yonder
To my crazed, addictive spectre
That fanatics call their home.
I wander sleepless day and night
But speak no pieces, shed no light
Upon my sick and endless plight.
I spare no cost nor trim my sail,
I only know I must not fail
To capture Moby Dick and end
This wail that shrieks my mind.