farrago

this is my nature
intrinsic aversion to organisation
entrenched chaos

this is my process
a determined absence of order or structure

in perrenial pursuit of
living honestly
I can only write freely

unfinished poems
from ephemeral fevered moments

the ebb and flow of my inspiration
within the framework of my erratic vertiginous heart
scattered sporadically by
my dichotomy of needs

silenced by standards...
or mired by delight in detail
tantricly turgid, beautifully bombastic

page after page
of a perpetual deluge
of visceral self reflection
of vigilent awareness and exploration

for me
to be
(fabulous fervent fucker)

is in chaos

what now?
(the question that paralyses me at the precipice)

do I pull together the scattered pieces
stitch them together,
a colourful patchwork

a farrago of chaos
of frustration, creation
and fervent cacophany



(i wrote this last year in response to what i felt completely creatively paralysed by at the time - my dichotomy of needs - a need to create at all costs, and a need to never have any element of my creativity be fabricated or calculated. I needed to celebrate my scattered farrago of inspiration.)