Stream of Conscious

Sometimes love goads,

It forces reticent wings

Into a blinding wind.

When in your company

I prefer disturbance

To the quantifications

Of a habitual silence.

My days are sheets

Of crumpled paper

And these poems

Which are awakenings

In theory are only

Fodder in practice.

Whose thighs and whose hands

Cradle my organs mutely?

Whose lips tear prophetic riffs

From my capricious knees?

Who needs to repeat the mistakes

Of their predecessors to recognize

Their own penchant to madness?

We want all our angels diseased

That we may count our blessings.

For each life there is a luxury

That will euthanize it

If substituted for passion.

It feels to me that I have several poems in here but I didn’t give myself enough time to write today so I guess this is more stream of conscious than poetry.