Portrait Of The Artist (Being Odd) Poem by Martin Lochner

strange tatty refugee
but still invisibly
connected to a ricky lake
umbilical cord

Jesus cut it off...free me
from this welfare common
connectedness!

harsh open eye
sleep with four brothers
sharing the communal
christmas bed...
cold feet no joy

the curse to be

inclined to Rachmaninov

attracted by Ezra Pound

inspired by Jackson Pollock

and consoled by Victor Hugo

the vomit peptic fear of the mocking
thrash pokes and jeers

what you doing boyo?
you better then us Mr.cufflinks

i sway nietschean in the late night streets
elegantly drunk...wailing a repetive witty song
of myself

odd little sod..blot the little rot
the price of cod...this value his rot
tra la la

standing at a red light cross over
in the bronx
beethoven plays through your german
precision window

extending my gesture of fellowship
you say no small change closing
the window

concreting the crooked melody forever

odd little sod..blot the little rot
the price of cod...this value his rot
tra la la

i am so alone...maybe not because shadows
peels from a graffitti wall

it is a meth band of off alley wolverines that cash
in on my nothingness

taking my notebook laughing and pulping me

i look beetroot faced to the stars and ask dear mr.Sir
what is my worth?

glassy eyed dead cats head looking at me in the middle
of main road

crawling home on tarmac knees and palm..dark night of the
soul ended and purposed renewed

writing poetry..embracing my
poverty and twisting every little nonsense
till it cried truth