Midnight With The Schizophrenic - Poem by Thomas Dorman
the poet shifts,
he does not prowl
he does not saunter
he does not stalk -
not his normal walk.
platters lie astrewn,
exhibiting from the carpet the oils
of english authority wrong'd,
aside random protests;
scattered, objectional remains of pretention decorated.
petrified white scintillations streak the varnish darkness.
daring, but concealing;
stifling growth, but adding beauty -
how rare is beauty that is not perverse! -
upon which are bore the weight of
locomotive desires & demand & supply.
the inhalation through the crack;
the temperament could stop the blood, &
in doing so,
the passage to remorse,
no beast can evade the soft,
naturally obedient dominance of
particle displacement all 'round.
& it bites tonight.
as the bosom in the dark heaves,
coursing plumes of invisible scent upforth,
the mingling of sexualities is
each frequenting manoeuvre
leaves long echoes & reverberations
in the corridors of experience;
defeaning tastes -
warping the normality installed.
cleansing the being of exactitude;
taking down doors by their hinges,
queues of concept filing in the foyer.
the infinite is proportional to the inarticulate.
the poet is thus Immaculate.
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