#3: Artist Dilemma

The moving base, the tipi house Remaining Light,

Shadowing Stygian crawls. Drink till the schism enthralls.

I swim naked, the moon aches depraved wine

Heeling my angel wing tides, Icarus falls to the scribe.

My needled heart prints tears on the Brakhage Fire.

Abstract to abstraction, I heel to the needled spire.

One cathedral higher, I fall west to the sunrise

Symphony breaking bread with a chemist feeding his frenzy lies.

All happens before I snooze my alarm

Surreal as a farm’s city boy proxy can fill a jar-

I’m seeing ghosts, I’m choking days through a journal’s arc, I’m

Winston Smithing these Barnums in hammer-anvil disarmament

Forcing a new companionship. Floating on a canon riff,

Here we go. Zeroes in the banter make us man-and-whiff-

Oh, war. Speaking of wine preaching eloquence,

Fix these calibrations to my brain and find a better chip.

The only way this makes sense is to have sense.

I’m an only child writing stand ups for a bag of dicks.

Look at me like a Cabbage Witch patching in the

Rabbit’s feet from Planet Three pattering my damaged soul-

That’s the wit. Dissociation with my addled grist.

Fact is fiction stabbing breathing cancer with the magic glib.

Lift the lid, find the boy eating cookie crumbs

Shacked to the greener thumb’s dirty habits- shit is fun.

© Nick Zazove (2024)