Wednesday, January 11, 2012


a loose group of literary beats
sit in some basement bar
lights out
curtains down
unable to see their whiskey
or another blue sky glimpse

old poets growing old
unable to write anymore
no longer wanting to be disturbed
or shaped by conductors of words
or publish another BRUTAL poem
they sit in darkness staying drunk
fighting their SULLEN fate

forgotten bohemian poets
with uneasy reflections of yesterday
and their dead perfume
disputing their agonies and fears
with the whiskey of their silence
they no longer know the TRUTH
or how to lie


Anonymous said...

Do you know these people? Clever poem, to evoke such a despairing atmosphere.

Lightverse said...

What a fascinating character sketch. Have you ever been to a place like that - because surely you are not one of those poets who "no long know the TRUTH or how to lie."

Brian Miller said...

dang...i hope i dont end up like that....swining at the end of my muse...

ThomG said...

Really good work here.

Sheilagh Lee said...

how depressing that they forgotten their way.

Susannah said...

I like this very much and those last two lines! Wow they really are strong. Nice work. :-)

Vivek said...

Very powerful.

S.E. Ingraham said...

sigh - we all been here? But how awful to think you might just resign yourself to this fate - "rage, rage - ..." you know ...