When I am mad I feel like hitting out

At the lies that bind me

At the ties that confound me

Hitting out is my primal instinct maybe

Maybe I should be more clever and cunning you see

Our manouevre the people out flanking me

Hit the sand and the beach around the sea

Love is fragile and hate is tough

Comedy is hard and action is rough

We try to entertain you but have you had enough

We are all toy soldiers labouring to make our dough

All my heroes are decaying or dead

There goes my childhood

Here come my tears

There go the dreams I had

Here come my fears

All my heroes are decaying or dead

Some drowned by sorrow a few shot in the head

I used to be a blue dog now I am a bull who sees red

It is getting harder to climb out of this bed

I dont even have the energy to smile for a while

I dont even have the food to swallow my bile

I dont even the energy to wake for reviled reveille

I get the pokes but I am too indifferent to their rile

I want to cry but the water supply is low

I dont want to see the storm from the bow anymore

So I go below deck to get the rum and port for more

Once again wash my warm poetry with liquor as before

The Writing Process Is Over

Allow your demons to escape. Which demons? Why should you allow them to escape?

Allow the demons of uncertainty to escape the barriers of professional mannerisms you have erected  and you think you will find yourself alone in an empty cage fighting two opposing lions anonymity and insanity.

Oversell and be labeled a prostitute intellectually, undersell and remain anonymous forever. Push yourself to near destructive limits to get the high needed for the writing process to begin shifting gears in your head.

Abuse alcohol, sex, intoxicants in whatever order of legality, morality or availability. Then recuperate and rehabilitate. Write while you recover. Let the demons escape and find that they were angels, one was named talent and the other was confidence

Burn out as you try to chase the high you got last time. This time try different methods to burn out. Your brain needs stimulants and your body needs nutrients. Try them all. Get various boring writing gigs to keep up with the bills while keeping the great Indie Novel buried deep within your heart.

Fight the penury of youth only to fight the decay of  aging while you grow older. Happy Writer? Well Paid Writer ? Oxymoron Writer is what you get. Count your words because you get paid by the words. Sometimes the stuff is not great but even Shakespeare was not the greatest playwright in every play is how you console. When the mood fails you, use cliches, analogies, examples discreetly knowing you are cheating but hoping you  don’t get caught.

Try and inflate your rates for writing indifferent stuff for mediocre journals with money and find that reality is a hard pavement for a drunken man’s jaw. Try and not write for a few days and find laziness makes your brain as fat as eating carbohydrates for your body.

Keep your ego higher than your writing rates but lower than the self estimate of actuality of your talent. Let not the indifference of your reality be the actuality of your laziness. A writer needs to write a few words every day just like a wrestler needs to do a certain amount of sit ups everyday. Allow caffeine to be the least expensive drug for your body.

In case of doubting your own talent, never ask your friends for their estimate of your writing talent. You either make them lie and that is a dangerous habit. Or you lose friends. A writer has few friends but his fingers and mind shall always stay. Socialize without losing your edge. Isolate yourself when it is time to write than network.

When all is done and written, it is time to read and edit. Bring back the demons. No one ever got published on the first draft. Scrutinize every word. Tweak, and ponder. Doubt is your friend when editing and your enemy when writing.

When everything is done, the writing is published, the cheque is in and the money has hit your account, then relax. The writing process is over.


Just stay happy

They told me something wrong with the boy’s personality

We don’t know what he won’t stay happy

Look at him he is so smart and doesn’t know he can be sexy

But you give him a break and he would still be a monkey

I go to bars to find my one true romance

Stalk online dating to get someone to dance

Estranged to my family Stranger to my son

You murmur self-pity But I have just begun

I play the Joker when I am not playing the clown

I am silently laughing when I am not trying to frown

They said manic depression is now called bipolarity

I may be poor but I could be as sick as Britney

I think I am ok but I should probably watch my wine

Drinking water always keeps a melancholic poet fine

To stay happy I must look to find the little joys

To say hey look I got another shining toy

Let us exaggerate the daily mundane superficiality

What is life but one more cliched journey

Man walks into a bar just to write some poetry

Someday they will catch the spy and hang him from the tree

For stealing tame horses and setting them free

We hang horse stealers here in our city

But relax you are still so young you got so much potentiality

Chill out have a beer and just stay happy



Welcome to America

Not like the brazen giant of  not bankrupt Greek fame,

With conquering limbs astride from Iraq to Afghanistan;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset Homeland Security gates shall stand

A mighty bureaucracy with a torch, whose flame

Is the predator drone, and her name

Mother of Dragons. From her beacon-hand

Glows world-wide surveillance ; her mild radar eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

“Keep ancient lands of dictators supported by us, your storied pomp!” cries she

With silent lips. “Give me your skilled, your rich,

Your huddled masses yearning to have better income tax free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming ghetto shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden arches door!”