Glass Bubble Feedback Loop

Contained in a glass bubble of
equal self loathing and hubris
the poet curls up to a primal
ball weeping his spiteful
sulphuric acid onto a still
by pen unmolested paper square
that could become either grandeur
or the carefree crayon sketches
of an infant in a grown man's body.

Combined efforts of muscle and mind
grips the too expensive lead and
pearwood pencil shaft
between a trembling thumb
and an unwilling index finger
as a paper dry whispering hiss
through clenched jaws proclaims

come on come oooon
you motherfucker

over and again but to no end
because a held pen is just another
impotent penis extension
until it bleeds coal and starts
scratching the surface.

Scratching the surface with unarmed
nails bitten down to the elbow
the poet mimes and mimics his dream
into the nothingness of twitches
unregistered and ideas fleeing
faster than the impossibly small
patch of geist roaring at his
tortured temples

shut up you man shaped travesty
take a break and smell the roaches
wake up and smell the coffin.

But the poet clenches his fist
in a Gollum dwarfing snarl
around his own his presscioussss
golden black lead and pearwood
powerless dumbass dildo

that could never write the
mumbling of that tambourine strung
heart echoing too much inside walls
of a glass bubble becoming
too distorted to decipher

unless the poet listens
with an honest open mind

that this very moment threatens
to break his skull from the inside
with the nail and glass
Molotov Cocktail bomb
that his held back pinned down
unattended unfed muse
soon will detonate
just to leave that wasteland
once and for all.

She is just behind his shoulder
if only he would turn and
chance a glance,

but the poet's shoulders
are higher than his head
as he rocks his fetal shell
back forth back forth

and such a degradation
takes too much dedication.

Still the paper,
corner torn surface worn
crumpled to a ball
rocks beside the poet,
empty as ever.