In full flight reality, the misunderstood angels of madness dwell, with delusions that can only be seen by them, they openly share. All things forbidden by the walls of conformity, on patterns and color, We lay down, exhausted, breath from unseen forces everywhere.
The beat poet took a box from under his bed, on one elbow, He watched intrigue as I drew life from his perceptions, scrawled out, In pencil, he portrayed life clearly than Ive ever seen it before. Unmasked, the twisted pain and pleasure of the of this loser, so brazenly rare.
I my eyes and captured this moment in time. The and cadence, mismatched and un-rhymed, Said it plainer and clearer excerpts, refined.
After for coffee at a local caf, I took him to see my new dwelling. Once there, I took out my list of lovers to vex, lighting the corner fire, Reciting an Id made up right then and there; his expression The corners of his wryly turned up, his eyes danced with a fear he knew.
We looked into others souls in silence, and he shared in my torment. Like the I casually read his ranting for hours, unaware That the of our souls was a mutual purging and cleansing We released each others imprisoned emotions, all laid and bare.
The beat poet nodded, as if, with a dare and a He took my challenge, and we knew this, Of our with those angels of madness, everywhere.