Post-modern Dandy

Falling notes
stimulate my inner ear.
Broca's brain is erect.
Bukowski whispers,
in my other ear,
words that speak of detritus,
language as exorcism.

Baudelaire speaks of cats,
mythical zoophilia.
Rimbaud laughs,
a tormented enfant terrible,
pointing his finger
at a protracted man-child.

Music spews from folky throats.
The metalanguage of my being,
translated to written words.

Xylophone notes and banjo spells,
caress the convolusions
of my temporal brain.
Breathable fluid molecules
flood my consciousness.

Tropical, absurd,
dystopic surroundings,
are blurringly made visible.
The veil is lifted,
the mimetic dream
is revealed,
as The Real...

My mind is my shelter.
Music and love
are the makings of my roof.

I'm fucked.
I believe in love,
art and beauty.
I hate my love for Love.
Reason, logic and sense
are bullies.

My hate
is the symphony
of their voices.
I'm struggling
against la morte
de ma jeunesse.