Poem: Sluagh

[jakebe]

The Muses have come, apparently.

This is about well, me choking on my art, and my hang-ups and desire for recognition. Loosely based on a Journey I've had recently.


Sluagh

See there?
Bloody fingers playing a piano
that nobody hears.
Black and white and red
all over.
You're not listening to anything
your friends have taught you,
too busy screaming silent murder
at the blank walls
to notice
you're choking, just the same
as you were before.
Black, distressed hair
white, frozen face
black thick lips of thin mascara
and white-stained teeth...
Who are you kidding?
Rock-star intellectual
thumping your Bible
for personal validation
all the while unknowing
of the ambition
that's sent you crawling
into your own asshole.
Inside, you know it,
there's a little black woman
beating at you
to find your soul,
which happens to be locked
in the back of an old Model T.
You know it.
You know it.
There's time to find recognition
later, she says,
Find yourself first.
Deep, deep inside, you know,
your soul is a set of car keys
you've left in some convenience store.
Are you comfortable with that?
It all depends on whether or not
you like the dark
and the light that comes with it.

-18.12.01