Thursday, 12 June 2014

Bipolar Nick Foreman

Bipolar paranoia.
On the professor’s deathbed
The priest enlightens:
If you commit to Catholicism
It would surely cure you.
Two learned individuals
Exhausted topic. Cruel torture, cruel resisting.
One is a freak
One is a fraud.
Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke
You once told jokes remember. We both laughed.

The lovers kiss & the demons whip
It’s a lonely equator.
Weeping desire, hopeless choices.
Is it a sin finding solace?
It seems so far away,
From darling children to hopeless ambiguity.

In my most lucid of dreams
Acclaim has almost arrived
But without a doubt her voice is heard
The woman with voodoo eyes
I believe you speak in riddles
A sordid young man with misanthropic views
Do you know that this is rhyming?
Isn’t that what you do?

In her house, I could never sleep in the comfort of blankets
Like the stars undefended
Dawn appeared to strip me bare.
In her house, I gathered dust on fingertips.
Holding hands with the wall
In her house, only I know how cold the floor was.

In my tight blue culture jeans
With my light blue cigarettes
I remove my green army jacket
Like I’m too late for the wrong war.
I stand limp and wounded under a surge of bullets:
How much money have you taken?
Peddling dreams you knew we would buy.
Like a drug dealer
Like a dream peddler
Riding boxcars with your guitar & bundle.
Who daya t’ink youse are?”

As always with romantic inebriation,
I fear your fear.

I wish I could be the hurricane poet.  

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