Spree 5

 
This is a spree,

taking a shortcut
through shit and grit,
style and wit to just
suddenly sit there,
on a tormented paper
staring up at me.

This is not poetry.
No, this
is a poet's spree.

Watch the poet flee
into a dark comfortable corner
where a warm muted nothing
lulls him to sleep,
while muse and soul,
paper, hand and pen
grind bare, bold,
bloodrush beautiful,
in their own
enigmatic,
eruptic,
erotic
pace,

putting words on paper
that the poet later reads
amazed,
sometimes aghast
but always amused
albeit sometimes,
at the same time,
equally abused.

This is a spree.

It starts where it wish
and ends as it please.

That is not,
not I say,
up to me.