planets (lyric)

let’s, let us say the moon beams,
sits and dreams of mayonnaise;
white snow moon and sleeby dreams.

o, let me fly, let me whisper off the wind,
far away, upon that rainbow, of which they’ve so much to say…

this, here is why the world goes bang in time
and many first times more.
why the sky, the sky, starts its ‘doesn’t-matter’ way;
wishing into halo, spinning either/or,
the start of you.

let’s, let’s dream, go on by, don’t stop for inconsequentials;
stop conversing seriously in plastic sentimentals;
let the present pass, it’s gone.

on the sappy smiles of pluto’s planetismal;
those midnight slopes of hyperbolic mystery,
let us dream, surf neptune’s intercontinental’s:
space dust and love in spaceboy fantasies.

you and me, we’ve talked and sang to Cygnus Minor,
breathing in each others glow. we go.
how much, how far beyond the bent horizon,
until this spinning platter starts to slow?

got to be ok to have a place of your own, where your ideals ring whenever anyone hits you. ok to know that what you need to express can only be because there’s nothing else left.

what is poetry writing?

_L2Q8184what is poetry writing? isn’t it what is left after you’ve written the poem? how do you know you’ve actually written one? is it because it works on someone else, or because it works according to what you think a poem should be?

doesn’t critique of your writing explain to you how you wrote? but, doesn’t this depend on a good critic — someone who’s as much a poet as you are…