Upon the Night's Plutonian Shore

Words that only delirium inspires,
I write with the tension of piano wires.
With the pomp and soul of a belated sneeze,
So ebbs the poetry with the greatest of ease.
With all the innocence of a baby lion,
With all the disgust of an obese Hawaiian,
I write, and tire, and write some more,
Hoping I can sleep forevermore!

The laughter died the day Erkel left,
He was rich and we, bereft!
What says you of this “celebrity” we created?
And James Dean was so popurlarly overrated,
Like perfume among the most sqalid stench,
Like Cupid arrow-sniping at some drunken French.
But he’s shot down by turrets in northern seas,
His body washed ashore by the morning breeze.

Coffee flows throughout my veins!
My sanity as apparent as Claude Rains.
Deranged, like the thought of a nude Roseanne Barr,
Impossible, I say! Like shooting under par.
“Quaff! Oh, quaff! This kind nepenthe”
Which of angel or demon spies hath sent thee?
With all the insensitivity of an epidural,
Prances the fairy woodland squirrel.

Where lies my darkness? Nobody knows.
It’s sizzling flesh, like flash-fried buffaloes.
I never learned for whom tolls the bell,
Luther’s in Heaven and Hitler’s in Hell.
Don’t wait ‘til the axeman cometh nigh,
An innocent game of four-sqare gone deadly awry.
So tired.... I can’t think of an end.
But I didn’t really think any of this.
Subconscious, in my head, lost with the fedded
shadowy dreams lost in sleeptalk and pillow
drool. So unnecessary. So repast.
Where do you go when all is lost?
The cat won’t save you? Mr. Nibblekins?
Where is he at? Gone! He has abandoned you.
So there.