The Brownie and the Poet

On a pair of kick-ass headphones he was listening to music  
that simulates a trip… while tripping.    
Being there live on the scene, I asked him, won’t that start to make you sick,  
Won’t it bugger your biorhythm, or jack with something?  
He looked away keenly and said “and who’s this prick?”.  
   
What follows is our conversation from right to left,  
and what he pre-posthumously said.    
I had my faculties, he was bereft,    
So I recorded it all before he was dead.    
My words in italics, his in san serift.  
   
 How can one both experience an experience and simultaneously simulate it?    
You’re mixing psycho-activity with one’s own proclivity. It sounds deadly, just a bit”  
 
One thing for starters, do the math for a minute, and fuck dude, you know it works.    
This is an omen to forget this fucking poem, Mr.Bowman, so have a brownie and join us jerks.  
Don’t be a blue pill. There’s meat in here no matter where you look.    
Raw and wriggling, off the hook. Reality, double reality, alternate too, but none by the book.    
I see my daughter, Dave’s way, and I weep. What can I say. I see things your mind could never keep.    
   
Don’t ask again sir, because I can’t describe her.    
No, not her. I’m speaking as I should,  
Truth is tangential, if not transcendental in this freaking ‘hood.    
I can’t write fast enough to understand me. I’ll speak my widsom, then let me be.  
I’ll find a rhythm and make up a rhyme, invent something else to smell the thyme.    
You know that’s poetic, and giggling good.  
   
The Deep Field is there, we know it exists.  
Somewhere between have-to-be and want-to-be.  
Somewhere between my bottle and oysters in the sea.      
It tells me where to write and what, and so it persists    
and becomes the answers within my snake,  
as I ascend to my questions as if I’m awake.    
   
You’re sounding like some misogynist creep.  
But I’m not, don’t misunderstand. It could be a poem or it could be a cat,  
When you understand the snake, you’ll know it’s not about that.    
See my meaning as if you were asleep.    
I don’t understand why cats and snakes are so deep.  
   
OK never mind, here’s a new title: “The Poem or the Kitty, which?”.    
But people like it gritty, not pretty or kitsch.    
Ya know, like in and out, in and out.  
Goddam, you’re a narcissist and assuming there-at. I said I’m not writing about that.    
Except you already did man. That was all you, without a doubt.  
   
Nobody reads this far, that’s what I doubt.  
The music has stopped so I’ll read what I wrote.  
But what’s it about, it strains my senses and stinks in my snout.  
Nothing makes sense but you want me to quote.  
Clean it up and say it right, at least for Jimmy, at least for late-night.  
    
It’s not about me, but about please or geez or lucky mother.    
Otherwise please, I’ll always pick geez over all the other.  
When the music starts it makes me write.    
because it is about me and not my good brother.    
You say it smells but that’s funny, quite.    
I smell scones when I see you. That’s also quite right.    
   
Lest you listen in fear and fright, the poem will win my heart tonight.    
So ask not what the hell I will write, because I don’t know.    
Just sing a song and it’ll flow. So please sing me to sleep and turn out the light.  
Plow for oysters, said the song of the sea, dig for those things you will never be, so    
please turn off my light. I am that I am.    
You should turn off your head and close your clam.  
   
I can’t say this stuff when it’s too wet to plow. None of it rhymes anyhow.    
I saw the big picture but that doesn’t matter when you’re not here now.    
So DO NOT edit, This is the best shit I’ve shoveled, keep.    
Please let me shovel and flip that switch.  
Now you’re just sounding stupid and slightly kitsch.    
Do you ever stop digging?    
 
No, because people see shit in this shit when there’s never none.    
There’s no cool-aid needed, just some nouns and verbs and perhaps a gerund.    
This has been fun, but I really gotta run. Lets keep this, it’s the one.    
Except it’s not, nor ever really done,  
and forever dangling without an end.    
 
Look, you’re the sparky and you’re live on this scene,    
so report this malarkey without all the sod.  
I’m live on this scene (too) and you’re being mean.    
It all seems fatal, and tastes like a dream. Whatever I say becomes god.    
In my next chapter I’ll adjust my drinking,    
Because life isn't fatal, I’m not thinking.    
   
Just take off your glasses, because man you are baked.  
Look, I’m only dying. So shut your pie hole until the wake,    
because this is poetic and breazy. Except it’s not.    
For Christ sake, it reeks of rot.    
The rhymes are cheesy and the poop doesn’t flow,    
and He wouldn’t like this, just so you know.  
   
You market this mess and think you're some guru,    
but God's new clothes are generally see-through.    
You think this is Poe and P Diddy having a kid, but damn dude,    
‘the hell’s wrong wi’chu? It’s tasteless and tormenting, too long and rude.  
   
If you did the math like I first said.  
A poetic novel is neither, nor ever read.    
I find the keys about half the time so cut me some grace.  
It’s half from my heart, half in my head.  
If a third half shows up it’ll be on my face.  
   
A novel has a body, but the body count mounts the more you spew.  
Wake up your ass and get a clue.    
Wake up and smell your own shit in your own stool.    
Put your glasses on your nose. Like it or lump it, but this is drool.    
Your shoveling sounds like groveling, not prose. Not wrong but so not cool.    
 
You know my friend, you’re a true-blue pill.    
My first and last words to you; fuck dude it works, you know it will.    
   
Did you know that death is not annihilation  
but separation from this existential cluster-fuck?  
And on the Isle of Arran, a brownie is a wee little goblin… just to mention.    
Now excuse me please, I’m feeling ill, and feeling struck.  
The world is my oyster but this is for you, and for you to keep.    
I’ll find a another brownie in the fridge and finally sleep.  
   
   
The fridge door opened and his eyes were violated.    
The light came on and he started to know (it).    
He thought he was dying but was only annihilated.    
This is what happens when a brownie meets a Poe(t).