Psyche of the Dark Poet (Revised)

Oh, what an unsympathetic creature is sanity,
Lurking behind us in its own insanity.

If the dreamlike rays of surrealist art
cannot cast out this relentless foe’s heart,

Our gift of imagination, and will of expressionism,
will ignite this stalking shadow with a vengeance.

I’m proud to be of another psyche.
Our passion’s fire burning brightly.

Without it, would we write with such metaphorical beauty?
That which is Inhered in our inherited genre’s psyche?
     
I think not,
Look passed the blinding shine to the sunspot!

In fact, all these words would be ordinary.
The hell with ordinary!

I want my head to whirl within the surreal mist
without the sense of what is in front or behind me.

Can a head spin 360 degrees?
And not still in realism’s rigid freeze?

Imagination could.
Stoking the flames, I shall of the firewood,

Turning this head again and again
until it screws off its spine and lands by my feet.

Even then, I’m not spitting dirt,
I’m chewing what the world has discarded,

Whether it be taboo or the unspeakable, it belongs to me.
Something realists in this realm cannot see.

My words, my feelings, my thoughts,
there’s no defined script for imagery.

So, latch the hooks into our mouths with what you think is true
but they will not open for you, or in a way in which you’d perceive.

The distinct silhouette of reality will be within sight, the metaphor, however;
will have a shadow which blends into the most potent of light.

Wherever the creature may lie, its white eyes illuminated in some dark shadow.
Now and again, its claws sting the outer reaches of my body.