Waiting for a spark of creativity
a starting point
middle beginning ending.
like waiting in line for soup and an empty belly
the butchers meat and stock, rotten vegetables stale pasta, stale bread
I had a handful of bread in my belly sopping up the acid
acid in my muscles leaching off my spirit
I had a few ideas but now the tap is dripping and the basin is cracked
and the cops raid the house which belongs to none and everyone
my associates my coterie my community.
redesign of our culture
absence of money
still things are good to hang your jacket on
visions torn like trousers
and my belly is always roaring
Who do I dine with tonight?
you can only eat your words so many time
its not enough
gotta stay strong.
Tonight Im a dormouse
Drowning in thought
watching the fat cats hang themselves
liquored up and driving
Comments about this poem (soup kitche by jerome moore )
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