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#Philosophistication

Return Of The Scrooge

Find fault in my philosophy,
find feathers drowning in my
ink, fingers stained by what I
bleed, me falling into ridges and
seeing the abyss, constantly I
bridge sanity and insanity when
scribbling this poetry, reading
rhymes from riled up corpses
of old poets, maybe mind might
remember the inner lawful scribe,
I fly over old pages, looking for the
landscape of my mental escape,
hero with a shrivelled torn cape,
foul tongue conversing with
brain, my mind is stuck between
my teeth, I’m holding my breath
in my skull, packaging thoughts
in wallets, harrassing my peace
with needs for financial stability,
I’m a loose pen that lost itself
in the mud of a sty, hold me
close to your page, I need to
cry myself a river of words, a
stream of consciousness, a flow,
a rant, I’m maggot brain when
the poetic thumb loses its funk,
I’m drunk on deliberate idiocy,
chasing whirlwinds to fallen leaves,
raking spring leaves searching for
divinity in lines on a leaf.

Reached the depth of teaspoon ponds,
deeper I lose connection with
the norm, I keep harvesting
vivid visions from the projector
of my ever-changing mindset,
When no rhyme speaks common
sense refuses to leak, when what
is poetry seems too bleak, too
English for this here tone to be,
too cryptic for these thumbs to
jangle the keys, unlock it, dead
poets society, dine me anarchy,
deliberately taunt me to write
of torn flesh when ghetto beef
runs rampant amongst empty stomachs,
It’s rampage, I’m ramming pages,
roaming back and forth between
the glamour of my own dis-ease,
wondering if I might marvel at
my own fiece, maybe then this pen
might snowpierce the cold frost
in these here pages that I hold
with great grief, or with great
belief I believe in my creative decease,
straighten that crease on that scroll,
satire and more satire; I need to
sugarcoat truth with sugarcane sticks,
or I know not how and I keep lashing
until truth stings, with gorilla grip
I let my wrist steer my pen to
oblivion, obliging the devil to
dine with me in this reality that
needeth brute awareness.
So with awe I weep when this
life like fine wine ages sour with time.

Now sell me a coin, read me my
vows to this craft, remind this
here tragic philosopher why where
was how when who was what when
these poems decided to become
through him, now I’m the worm
slithering into your eardrum,
I’m calling for gatherings by
burning your nerves, meet by
the crest of your cerebellum,
hear me dance into the deeper
parts of your substance, I’m core now,
I’m essence, I’m presence, I’m
the figment of these here sentence,
now come let’s be sane, we cabbage
heads, the scrooge has awaken,
dancing to a thousand heartbeats
of insects, mind becomes my mosque
and my synagogue, let me gorge
out your eyeballs, place them back
facing backwards, now marvel at your
own residue.

By Eugene ‘Philosophisticater’

Artwork by Bruno Pontirolli

℗ Philosophistication Poetry ℗

2021 All Rights Reserved ©

The Return Of The Scrooge

The creator creates a creator!

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