Friday Night At The Orchid Room

*strolls up to the stage….dragging a chair slowly behind me, hearing the legs scrape against the floor, echoing against the walls, the small audience is quiet*

*I sit down on the chair, light up a cigarette, and I just watch the people. Watching for reactions….*

So here it is….old age finally found me
Funny though, I don’t feel any

different
older
wiser
smarter

than I did yesterday. Or the day before,
or the week, the month, the year before.
It’s the same old grind day in day out
routine is NOT the mother of invention,
I’ll tell you that
right now.

Maybe one day, my views will change
I won’t be so angry
I won’t be so jaded….
so…..blase….bored with it all….
maybe one day,
could be tomorrow
next week
next month…..never
never know
but just sayin,
I can change if I wanna.

Thirty…..I am thirty, with the mindset
of an old lady….an old lady, voodoo
priestess perhaps, mystical sort,
if I choose to believe in re-incarnation
of souls, recycling lives
cause heaven ran out of room
for angels,
so he just sends back
the not so good ones
to keep on tryin
and tryin.

Will I ever get it right?
Will I ever get to make
it to nirvana?
To bliss…..
to go down, and be remembered
not for me….no…..no poet is truly
remembered for themselves,
but for the thoughts and words
I spin everyday, every minute,
even in my sleep man…
I am walking through
inspired waking dreams
with a low slung hip roll,
hands in my pockets,
waiting.

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Tuesday Night At The Orchid Room

*walking up to the stage….tapping the microphone*
“Is this even on??”

Twenty Four Hours Of Sequential Thought
1.
Does the man in the moon
know he’s made of cheese?
That lovers place their hopes,
and dreams upon him?
Does he hear the screams
of wrecked lives,
the lost innocence
of children everywhere?
I wish that man in the moon
would wipe the smile
off his face.

2.

Air brushed across
the core of my mind,
rushing me to find
some surface to play
with ink,
to give sudden birth
to inspiration.
Draw it out,
line by line,
make it grow,
watch it mature right before
our very eyes.

3.

Pick pocket muses
strolling through the masses,
going unnoticed, ducking
behind shadows of the disbelievers.
Feeling an electric jolt
from across the world
and back…
A butterfly just flapped it’s wings.

*slowly strolls off the stage, hips rolling in indifference to the people watching the auditions*

written by The Angelheaded Hipster 2007