On wrinkled, crinkled sheets of scraps
Of napkins (soaked in symphonic 'pardon me's)
They're like two-bit junkie beatnik wannabes
No sense, but hell
At least they have fire!
They're addicts to their own thoughts
So self-absorbed, (but at least the self is solid)
All they can be
Is, captured-crystallized, in thirty-some-odd lines
They're Onanists
And their poem the semen stain
That the world can launch volleys upon
(Jesus, they're just kids!)
And I don't even know
How the bastards get out of bed
With a mouthface all glowing
Like bodhi tree matinee marquees
Give 'em the poem, poets
When the crowd tears you limb from twain
At least you were causally supportive
You sent volts through the serpents' spine
And no one likes to be woken from their nap
Keep the scene real for the artists who must step hither
At least someone
(When you are doubleplusdead)
Will read your aching shaking tumor births
All tear-irrigated at your story
A punch on a bathroom stall in despair
"Someone has to write the poetry"
