Be Here Now

I have a special treat for you today. No, not an actual tangible treat. I can't give you candy through the internet.

BUT

I wrote a poem last night when I went to the Be Here Now pub/bar down in the village.
I just kinda let loose and had fun with it. Definitely haven't tried writing in this style before, but there you have it.

So enjoy.
Or don't.
But you should.

Poets in Shadow

The light casts a green hue, I feel like I’m caught in a swamp expecting frogs to hop out of the puddle over in the middle of the floor. Is that a lily pad? I wouldn’t be surprised.

There’s that smell. That not-quite-rotted-but-getting-there kind of smell. It’s teasing my nostrils, suddenly coming and then immediately leaving like your mother-in-law checking up on some nothing.

What’s up with the random disco ball hanging from the ceiling? And was there a globe holding it up on the outside? There’s chairs and couches and other random stools thrown about half-hazard, grouped in corners, standing in puddles, all under the weird grunge hue shedding from the swamp light.

I see the reflection of the poet in the puddle by my foot. How can he read with just that strip of Christmas lights behind him? How can I write this actually? The green light making my pen cast an elongated shadow as it scurries across the paper. Such a flitty little thing, scratching words one after the other after the other trying to form a complete sentence before that girl steps in from of my radiating swamp monster.

All the would-be-wannabe poets stand, sit, or lay around the cold cement floor, tucked in corners, covered in shadows. Shadows cutting their faces into irregular shapes, grotesque shapes. Edgar Allan Poe could write a thing or two about them.

The crowd chuckles as crude humor is tossed around on the smoke exhaled from the cracked lips parted. I must have missed it. I’m really more worried about trying to stay warm because of this huge fan blowing behind my couch. Why the hell is there a fan in a basement when it’s the middle of February? Words after words pour out of their mouths. All the same just thrown together in different ways.

That’s all literature is, a new way to use the words we already created to try and bring meaning into our lives, our trivial-ain’t-got-nothing-going-for-me lives.