Who write of sex;
It's the deepest
They ever get.
I think of painters
And their nudes
As if unclothed
Their art improves,
Some writers too--
Like Leonard Cohen:
Nude in My Montreal Apartment.
Really Leonard,
where was your head,
And where has it gotten you
Now that you're dead?
I hate ultimate questions;
They make me sick
But they must be asked
Or why exist?
For me, to be real
Means to write of pain
And be totally honest
admit your shame
Accept your Muse
Whatever her stripe
Well, in my case, they'e ghosts
That haunt me nights.
Oh, I con myself
They're not there
When they disappear
In an electric glare
But they always return
And find me here
Like a nagging cough
Or black despair...
It's all I've got
In a darkened house
But it's where I am now
Not where I once was.