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