poem next, polluted fertility

Poem next

don’t tell me what to do or how to live.

I am totally and permanently disabled with bipolar disorder.

The rules do not apply.

I can either write no poems or cannot stop, sometimes.

I can either not stay awake or not get to sleep, sometimes.

Staying up all night is the worst thing I can do,

Except I do it all the time,

which explains a lot.

Let your passions roll the dinkum genius writes, as though he knows

what it is like to have to words coming faster than I can type,

and each one my GENIUS brain approves as brilliant, apt, not to be missed.

The waiting world would will be so lucky to read this!

Choices – do I take my medication and risk falling asleep,

not take my medication and risk falling off the edge of the world.

Perhaps I can check my archives for a message from myself when I enlisted in this turkey shoot. I must have had some idea of how to  proceed, unless I was in De Nile, which is not a river in the desert since it spreads its now polluted fertility along its banks….

Polluted fertility. That’s a good image for my brain.

Welcome to my world, my friends and frienders and friendees.

I don’t bite, scratch. Or do harm,

but I might hop up on you and lick your face.

Cave Canum.

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