A Poem - The Hour Of The Creative

The hour of the creative

somewhere between dark and light

all the worker drones gone to bed 

to dream of their transient security and boring lives

the ghoulish creatives soar

on cheap wine or homegrown drug

wrestling poems or their own poison from the Muse

parading their mad maker gene on a global stage

intellectual fucking with creative brothers or social sisters

all to the beat of Mussorgsky’s Golitsïn's Exile

each calling to their own particular diaspora
help me - buy me - sell me - steal me

the alternating current 

of creative poverty

I’m rich - I’m poor - I’m rich..

.

meanwhile back @ the homegrown drug factory...