the lost man chronicles
the daily chronicle

hypergraphiating Houdini

hypergraphia, what blessed curse i have!
to be able to write from here to the apocalypse
to epistolarily blather, prattle, blab
it is a talent that often annoys the glib
they not realizing it is my gift to give
and to give and to give and to give!
for i am struck with this incessant need to bleed,
to regale to relive and to relieve
every moment
of everything that means anything to me,
as i am obliged to know, to feel, to see
every fucking epiphany that most men are unable to grasp,
for vision's blurred by beast-of-burden obligations and their ceaseless list of tasks,
and so it is i must write tirelessly about tiresome things—
about the colors of hyacinths and the hues of flings
about this inane and mediocre life i lead
and all the wretched poems that my fingers bleed
about all the voluptuous beauty that daily tempts and passes me by
and how i am far too shy and guilt ridden to risk knowing—
what i covet and see so glowing—most intimately
about how i love to fuck, fuck to love, love to lick, lick to fuck, to live, to love
about how I yearn to unconditionally take, to receive
to relent, and whimsically conceive
oh yes, and about how
seemingly i can write till the moment of my last sigh and breath,
for it is by this mad-method of writing that i enter eternity and
escape death.

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