Patrick Moore


but it’s those Saturday afternoons,
I voluntarily surrender myself to the
sanctuary of psychedelic cohesion
with a roof shielding over the
non compos mentis in my mind
from the impressionable.

hidden, out of sight, out of mind,
tucked away, forgotten about
all the bills are paid
the phone never rings
the door never gets knocked upon
nothing but the sounds of the
furnace humming
with no one to talk to
no one to play with
except maybe the poem
the instruments of tranquility
and the dust mites in the mattress
while the animals are resting
in the sun patch of lucidity
the scales being tipped between
loneliness and solitude
knowing nothing, learning nothing
seeing nothing, being nothing
easily persuaded with happiness
in the great meditation of dolt but…

perhaps I step out of my comfort zone
perhaps I schedule a luncheon with an old friend
perhaps I raise a bit of hell at a local bar
perhaps I relive my glory days of terror
perhaps I let the music set me free
perhaps I’ll take my chances on the cold streets
perhaps I’ll be disappointed with the outcome
perhaps I’ve been robbed of my beautiful depression
perhaps it’s definitely one worth fighting for

perhaps the outside world is the
cheesiest b-rate horror film ever made,
full of sneering eyes and taunting voices
but it’s just too cruel to manage.

and wait’ll see what happens
when I stick my ass in the air
for the hideous creatures
of the world to come ravish it,
wait’ll see what happens
when I rub the belly of a bumblebee
and get stung on the tongue of remembrance
wait’ll see what happens
when they try to extinguish the flames
of my inner avidity

even the tiniest of embers could come
back and set the whole world on fire.


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