Sheets & reams of the nonsensical Literary blood lost in the shadow of ink The lifeforce of a simmering soul Marginal hearts writing love against the kitchen sink
Leaving behind the caricature of an artist Contributions to society felt in these empty sheets Fingersmudges marking pages not so white Starkly exposed with revolutionary words in the streets
Traces of hereditary ideals eroding away Igniting pages shall still be a stilted sin Yet we rise again from our desert floor Eternally grateful our finite letters aren’t porcelain
You have your notions of me Whether it’s my rugged good looks Or I’m a notorious scalawag Though, I’m neither a hero nor a crook
I’m not a man of much persuasion Nor am I a wild west outlaw I choose to wear the eyepatch But I’m more of a gentleman with flaws
I write fast & love slow Without a care of what they say about me When you have faith You never have to wait & see
I quietly find my secrets within Descended from that beautiful literary brogue To hell with the naysayers; we’re gonna have fun I’ll be your host tonight, the swash-unbuckling rogue
Many out there won’t warm to my charm Not their cup of tea or simply they’ve no style But you of good taste & renown class Come share a spot with the one with the mischievous smile
Flirting with a literary-inclined woman Sitting puzzled by the glances she took Wondering what’s swirling in her mind Guessing she’s judging based on my books
Worshiping the lady’s flesh I am not divine, yet hope she might be Kissing before daylight, the way we used to Adjusting to my senses; that I might finally see
Telling stories after dark Occasionally with Tom Waits in the lead Fantastical little allegories Bringing a light to those souls in need
No need to whisper in the shadows Luminous words to prepare the way Removing barriers to our enlightenment Witticisms fleshed out & on display
Short tales to get creative juices flowing Harking back to dreams that we might meet Subtle differences between the pauses Allowing our imaginations to properly greet
Scenes from our own round table Foreplay within our cheeky banter Conjuring visions of a keen passion Diluted memories at the bottom of our decanter
Bad behavior leads to a more examined life Though through fiction we can live eternal A little more sensitive than you want to believe Yearning to be held by a beautiful dame so maternal
Out here with our hearts raised to the sky Searching for better answers on the midnight shore With the freedom to imagine wisdom laid bare Parsed theories for when we sent them off to war
Subtle manipulation within our romantic esthetics Unreliable narrators marching; our literary brigade There’s no vernacular for hearts’ folly Pushing forth our gentle notion love might persuade
In the end, dear friends, our parable is contrite In this heinous world, we all have a simple choice I lay myself to slumber, a fatigued sailor Wishing for a lullaby coming from Nick Cave’s voice
Your idols weren’t half the men
They thought they were half a bottle in
Cowardly hiding behind unjust traditions
Sinning while gulping juniper medicinal gin
Their women languishing in the shadows
Cast off from any chance to reach the light
Yet those damsels can see through the dark
The perfect heroine to save an errant knight
Misconstrued notions of dynamic parity
Swabbing the deck with your fallen idol
Ink smudges & literary drudges
Methinks – their mothers should’ve used spermicidal
Suburban arcades & record stores Love notes left jammed in the teletype Ancient technologies lost to whims of time Sacrilege of consuming before it’s ripe
Littered by dreams of public-school poets Falling to the feminine side of healing Whose obedience to authority lingers But only the lonely are rhymin’ & stealin’
Our literary antihero catching the cliff notes A repressed childhood is still better by half Trying to make up for that deleted time But you can’t get far by writing on decaf
Standing with arms braced to the wind Needing antiquity to know how we perform Rolling empty dice against our loaded fates Summer on the coast ensures the storm
Headed downtown for the literary type Searching for the scribes of our weary day To heal my heart with words that matter I’ve tried, but I don’t see any other way
Falling stars may not mean much to you But I’m here without any expectation or hope Where do we find our reasons for love Even we can kill our dreams, given enough rope
Those words come to me in those coffee dreams
A spontaneous marvel of literary delight
There’s a difference between manufactured beauty
& a real beauty, founded by nature’s authentic right
But I can’t explain the nuances with the definition
I’m not one to judge such subjective whims
Focusing on my own qualms & dangling thoughts
Let us sit, pour another cup, let’s solve these problems
I’m not bothered by such trifling issues as rules
Let them worry about my intents & being misconstrued
I let my chosen pages explain all I’m willing to
I’m more concerned if that pot has finished it’s brew
Captain Q 