Hot Air

Oh where is that sweet symphony, where is my muse?

God bless the patron saints of lost causes

And the home of the brave

Forget it: clichés for frauds and cheats, foolish notions of traditions

Feverish flesh and words float off to anywhere but existence

I can no longer utter what pained me through words

of elegance, instant ebb and flow

All is broken and tattered, shaken.

The institution binds me to a contract, the chains hide wings which would be free

Structure and duties weigh me down, crush and collapse the ideas

Eyes melt out their sockets, drip to the floor; who needs sight in grey cells?

Skin burns, flakes to dust; touch is not longer of true value

Descriptions and imagery no longer necessary for the faith, the mathematics, the bricks that encase us all

Poor prose and obscenities jump out the throats of gagging children, pour out their mouths with their vomit and their spit

The end is eternally the same

Go on. Go away. Carry on.

Let me remain a vent. Let me remain a half-open vent in the corner,

Blowing hot air, blowing stale prose,

Spewing dry verse into the institution,

Into the mindless, and thus into oblivion.