Ars Prozatica

They ask me why do I write? I really don't have an answer for that, 'it's me not you', says the dæmon in my brain He likes Prozac - - loves it, His hunger is insatiable - - he can chew Prozac and Venlafaxine and Esctilopram, and sleeps only when he gets some Clonazepam... He writes verses, some are stupid and some even more - - imbecile like moron. He makes me see things like a vivid HD dream in a foreign language without subtitles - - I don't understand them, but the images stay with me - - the image of a violent scream in darkness, another image of a vagabound chasing a mirage in night at a salt desert - - the vagabond sees the sky with the stars coming together to form the face of a decapitated baby making a chuckle What? Lo! The language is yonder the horizon of the black, rotten blood ocean, where the sun is shaped like a minator and there's Oedipus - - in the shape of a cat, without eyes - - tears of fresh blood, And Antigone has snake hairs, while the human in me is coiled up like a snake again, trying to digest the rotten rat's bones inside its belly And then there's always that one room - - there's no room for light or air or anything human in it, except a voice - a voice that tells me - 'Be a poet on Prozac, take your liberties with anything and everything, the meanings will be lost between the lines, and you will metamorphose into the dæmon that's inside you' Ars Prozatica, not worth a shot of tequila or sensible arguments - - it's just the dæmon in my head, trying to crack open my skull like a coconut - - Only from inside......