A TIDE OF PISS TO
SAVE ME
Standing under a near full moon
pissing off my porch, a slum thing,
wondering if I could make me enough piss
to create a rising tide to float me out and away
from this place of ruins and future archeological digs.
I see myself standing on an ocean of urine
silently being carried off as the tide goes out.
Disgusting, disgusting;
who the hell would want to rise on a tide of piss?
I would.
Being the creator of the ever increasing flow is much better
than being the ground cover trickled down on.
© M Durfee
10/26/2015
THE HEART OF A POET
We speak to hopes and dreams,
plans of man and smoke rising
from house fire schemes.
All to deflect attention away
from the overly bruised heart of the poets,
the pulsing pained beat born within from the start.
Poets are born but not all write,
while all writers are trained by some vein or another.
Usually to provide punctuation properly
while attempting to amputate the heart within the poet.
There is no profit in poetry—except in vocabulary usage.
(oh those damned student loans)
Where is poetry mined from,
why does it bleed so easily from some
while others must dig and claw,
opening arteries for words.
All poetry is for them not readily aware
of the unseen other, echoes of visions,
choices, roads, experiences, decisions.
What fear may come,
when the mind is never silent,
the eye never blind,
always looking down, forward, behind,
never still until the last breath
of this polluted place is taken
that final step made across the chasm done.
None, no fear is allowed in a poet’s heart,
only naked crucifixion on the Appian Way
in kinship with a free man,
another soul born of Spartacus’ seed,
who only wanting a homeward sending,
rebelled his way into a living hell prompted by need
yet led himself to the unknown ending,
no comfort at his last breath only a hard won death.
© M Durfee
10.26.2015
There is much beauty to be seen and romanticized. I see it as well but there
are enough poets out there trying to communicate the sense of it, I am a poet
like all others in that box, I choose what I think I need to say at this
moment. This is a far from perfect piece but it is of the nature of the only
thing required of me; honesty.
