3 years ago… I had just told her that I was no longer the most beautiful man in the world. That I had transcended beyond beauty.

Dennis Mantin

“What a great idea… Do you know what this place is missing? A box of shit in the living room! Let’s get a cat.”

The sentence was death by boredom. The virus spread the earth.

Madness rained down upon them. Like some monsters giving birth.

They handed out free money. The kind that makes you soft.

And nearly jumped out their skin. When someone smiled and coughed.

Then Dylan put out an album. With a song called Murder Most Foul.

That sounds as disgusted as I feel. Like the purging of a bowel.

I’ve learned to take the blessings and take them as they come.

He is at another level, a bit too much for some.

It started out as leisure.

Just a story with a name.

Just a dirty little poem.

With no guilt that wasn’t shame.

Then there was the paintings.

Looked like something maybe art.

Then a thought became a film.

Just no stopping once we start.

Was a murmur from a choir.

And a voice that rattled hymn.

From a note that just got higher.

In a light that knew no dim.

In the moments that were awkward.

I learned to listen and looked to see.

Saw the living and breathed spirits.

You can’t guess which one is free.

Her voice has not gone silent.

With this distance I can’t hear.

She’s yammering somewhere to someone.

About something, let’s be clear.

A story about a victim.

A heroes journey with a cause.

And an abusively bad bastard.

Who can surf above the laws.

She can speak with such conviction.

And for for sure those will be tears.

Don’t feel bad, she’s fooled the experts.

A practiced art for tired ears.

Some people think I miss her.

I never learned to be that tall.

Truth be such admiration.

For such bold impudent gall.

I grew tired of the Politics…

But at least it wasn’t war.

Between the talking and the nodding.

There was the snoozing and a snore.

I grew tired of the sports talk.

And the money for the stars.

It all seemed so damn important.

For the stool sitters at the bars.

I grew tired of the drinking.

Because of where my mind would go.

And all the chitter-chatter.

And the fires down below.

I grew tired of the dramas.

To have anyone around.

I’m a Hermit on this island.

In this Urban sprawl of sound.

Better to teach children about boundaries early on… rather than later, looking through plexiglass, asking for canteen money.

Dennis Mantin

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My coffee was exotic.

The cream was thick and chill.

I was feeling down like burnt malaise.

But for that, they had a pill.

The model came from Instagram.

So hot, it seemed like crime.

Necks all snapped, and heartbeats capped.

Traffic halted on a dime.

There was liquor and a base beat.

And the rest, I’m not so sure.

There was lust and fussed and upper crust.

And my intentions less than pure.

All