Eat Me

In this epoch there is a plague
It is of a diminishing inspiration
For those infected
They must rely on their opiates
To pen poetry and song for them
Angels aren’t interested
In human conversation these days
But we have friends
Old, black, sticky and malleable
Soft, green, and strong of scent
Their wisdom is ancient
And our desire is paramount
The price they ask is understanding
The gift they give is contemplation
The gift is action whence received
It is
A door
Into your own world
A key to your bedroom
In which you have never slept
Its comforts arranged to your liking
Denied only of your presence
You are at the door
Scratching the lock with your fingernail
When you should be pushing
Yourself through it like
Liquid mind
Eat me drink me smoke me
And find out

by Peter Timothy McQueeny

Comments (1)

Timothy i like you young poet's after reading young poetry, i go and have a bloody big meat pie, i'll give you my vote only because, i'm not hungry any more REGARD'S AJS