novel writing

shattered armor lying on the ground
here in the next chapter the baby was
lost the song was unfinished he grasped
the wooden sword thinking it a working
model the chapter is a draft the candor
of the major female character just an
illusion somewhere in me the voice
calls wake up the night time is just
another method of avoiding your memory

he said no one finishes a poem
and there was that guy who hadn't
had an orgasm in 95 days one day
for every complaint in Luther's
list and a couple to flaunt a moral
superiority I understand the way
such abstinence breeds a contempt
for nature I am so above the biological
self that must mean I am like the deity
yeah right you da man

but the poem is unfinished and
my orgasm has eluded me again
still in my mind's eye the memory
can be tracked the naked girl
assenting to her desire and my
dark needs I still think its
those days in catholic grade school
with all that talk of virgin martyrs
crying their sweet eyes out refusing
the advances of the wicked and
offering up the pains the tortures
to a perfect white lit fellow himself
a masochist no doubt

in the last chapter there was
a bell rung for each brave act
it rang twice in its loneliness
he did the right thing but the
maiden preferred the dragon and
his wooden sword shattered in
his grip at least it didn't
suddenly incandesce the helix
fleeting its four desires
unsynthesized in the light

no child created
no poem finished
no song repeated