Steel Hound: The Unfortunate Ripping on January Second

The bloodcurdling whine,
From the steel Greyhound,
Issues not from the beast itself,
But from the poet in it’s gut.

Savage sainthood,
Attributed to the martyrdom of the bliss,
That, for a moment, was completely his,
Does not make up for the throbbing ache,
Of the missing kisses from the edge of that Lake,
Casino windchill making an embrace chafe and grind sweetly,
For Him and the Lover that makes him feel.
Truly Feel,
Feelings of an Almost Human Nature,
Pink Floydian minus the lonely.

But that metallic beast,
It bears away the poet,
On gasoline wings,
To a “home” in a town far from the breast,
That made His soul sing,
Not him,
But his fucking soul.
Do any of you understand the immensity,
Of a man with no propensity,
Toward song,
Being bemused, by His Muse,
Into a chorus so loud it could not issue from any human throat?
He had no vote,
No trial,
Before exiled from the core of his being,
But now as he pens this,
He is finnally seeing;

That a yearning,
No matter how much it stings,
And the the bleary-eyes burning,
Beneath gasoline wings,
Are only symptoms of that soul-sickness,
The one that only plagues those wonderful few who deserve it.