Every hour since 3:30 am

He wakes up as if somebody

Had pulled his hair

Maybe his ghost of a Muse

Sensed his need for love and


His body aflame with drops

Of sweat from an alp.

The morning still young on


Just now will be loaded

Heavily by verbal gunfire

From his spouse

Attacking the quaint state

Of his preparation.

He removes the shield of

Achill and defends himself

With words against the hurt

She’d belted out like a

Wounded deer.

He leaves with a heavy heart

Walking 40 minutes to the

Main bus line commuting

To the city with world status.

The poet dives into another

Life as a guide for Mr T –

Art gallery owner

Artist for life.

Interrupted sleep transformed

Bad feelings into god ones

With every word the pet writes

Word by word

Strophe by strophe

Life’s vision has been turned


To a point of mental flight.




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