23

Ascending and descending.
Ripping the poem to shreds.
Casting everything aside in search of the abstract truth.
Shifting saxophone penumbra.
Melancholy tears in the jaded light of day.

Excuse me while I trumpet headlong into oblivion,
taking pieces of this fragrant night,
silently moulding my flimsy tune.

Jurassic symphonies pound in my chest.
Mad hair ablaze with quivering jest.
I strain to imagine the universe
in it's rearranged form
and present it to you
without upsetting the norm.

As I delve into this mirror
without the vaguest sense of terror.
I realise my mortal error
because you've heard this shit before.
Don't you remember being 23,
indulging in quaint philosophy.
Criticising society
with a noble sense of piety.

Questioning the bounds of reality
to see the world in it's totality.
Taking theories to their conclusions
and getting lost in delusions.
This world may be an illusion
but there's no need for confusion.
Just see without duality
and lose that dull banality.

You can call me a punk
but these words are just junk.
Maybe I've just smoked too much skunk.
Fuck it! Let's get drunk.