Nick Perere reads his poem, "The Peculiar New Room" for the Louisiana Words Tour at George's Place in Baton Rouge, LA.

We live in effortless echo chambers Plagued by the Algorithm Almighty Vacant and void of our pious prayers The Pendulum of Hate is swinging free. And it’s tipped by the clouded Clementine Right in front of our alert open eyes. I wish we could push past this wretched time While they’re ignoring the Unwanteds’ cries. Let’s wear the disguise of racist rich men. Walk amongst them like we are fucking free. While they’re not scared of our pigmented skin, Let’s gossip gaily and spill the spoiled tea. Just or unjust, we’re dealt a cruel fate. Write freely now, for it may be too late.

What will one do for their art when it pulls them by the heart? When every cell of your body is on fire and every strand of your hair vibrates with desire to weave, to write, to sculpt, to compose. Does the beauty come from the mind? Is it within each artist or does it just appear and disappear like smoke. My throat is dry, my belly aches from hunger, I cannot sleep so I remain woke. I eat at the ash of my desire to  create, to paint a picture with my words that I cannot guarantee will ever be heard. I claw at the dryness in my throat the ashes in my mouth long for the river of my mind, of my pen. Stanzas of images, of creation within.  My last vestibule of thoughts of a crescendo, of wet clay  upon a marble table, of dreams turned  into life, to stay on the page, on the canvas, in the lyrics forever.  I did  this. I wrote, drew, sculpted, composed with ribs showing, eyes sunken. No matter because I know that as long as words flow, and as long as children d...

 

 

I am at war with you My love is forever true You leave me in disgrace  And without any place  What is love good for? Absolutely nothing solid So I remain quite stolid  I can't ask you anymore  I am at war with you  I am at war with love I don't care with who You puppeteer me from above  This war, this love, this pain God, grant me life, I'm insane