Most of my "poetry" was originally conceived as lyrics, so it shows a bit more deliberate rhyme and structure than some of the other offerings in this thread.
This one has never been recorded:
Quote:
Let the Light-Bulb Speak for Itself
Only sitting in this palace
like the king of connoisseurs
who looks out on his sad existence
obfuscate and obscure
accused of outright introversion
heresy and worse
some folks I know could prob'ly quote out chapter and verse
but when I think on all the hours they might have rehearsed
I almost pity them for locking me away, cause I'm the only mink who sees...
They say all inspiration is a gratification,
but at least some small part of it's disease.
It's got me running from those salesmen
with their water-milkglass eyes
who'll sell you innocence and cobwebs
any colour shape or size
till I found diff'rent shades mascara
but they saw through my disguises
though their cobwebs didn't suit me
what you ought to realize is
I've known spiders well enough to let them customize their spinning-silks on me...
My mark is made upon each moment in a delicate aesthete
of arachnist whim and subtlety.
. . . . . . . .
Now my last communication from the outside world
came over specially delivered subdivided in thirds
by an apteryx, a phoenix and some other common bird
with an unfortunate tendency to hide all of my unsolicited mail...
The daily post was more transcendent before it became dependent
on the inside of my leather and my therapist's travail.
You see, I've never known the hangman's eyes to appear quite so grim
and the gleaming of his eyelids makes me wonder about him...
Up till now the light-bulb's always seemed a little dim.
—M. David Blake, © 1999 (with slight revisions incorporated on 8 January 2008)
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