Torn Rose

Like a torn rose,

They found my love,

Her form was a joy to behold;

She'll never complain, she's always restrained,

She'll definitely never grow old.

I have my memories, a lock of her hair,

And I have her pretty red smile;

I'll take her right out, and dance her about,

And lock her back up for awhile.

If love is a prison, she's my captive indeed,

I'll never relinquish my hold;

I'll keep her in chains, in the back of my brain,

Though her skin is so damnably cold.

And never and never doubt the power of love,

Though a rose become tattered and old;

Though she's battered and worn, tattered and torn,

And so damnably icy to hold.

Thirty-six poems by experimental musician and outsider artist Tom B. Molotov is the first collection of his poetry ever published. These brief versification and black forays into the world of dreams and nightmares span an era of ten years, and cycles of subconscious communications with that ineffable OTHER only a living, sentient but alien soul can perceive. Erupting from the burning, nauseous gut of a terminal outsider, one who takes his cues from his sleeping brain (wired into the vast, Universal Conscious Awarness) the poetry of Molotov boils over with a malignant rage at a world gone mad; but, still looks, with an eager, mystic eye, at a world that is invisible, unborn, and, certainly, one that is Yet To Come. These poems are the visions and hallucinations of a raving seer, the guttural dirge of an anarchic and possessed brain. Cover painting "Untitled 2019" by the author.