Poet Issues
it was an orgy
of the anti-fantastic,
a spill out an eighth story window,
ideas as limp and lukewarm
as breathless doves.
it was a waterfall of useless hurt,
sheaves that meant so much less
than one line from a famous writer.
it was an example of what it didn’t take
to be more than a crumpled curl
in the city’s ego-heaped, petty gutters.
no one cares cares cares
for days drunk or sober,
sex-filled or sterile,
cried in extremes
from the bleeding mouth of my pen;
no one cares
for this savage agony of stormy bliss
chewed in the pincers of tiny rhymes.
cockroaches of cliché
crawl up my leg,
swelled brown as sewage,
their feelers ticklish over my heart;
yet when i scream, trapped,
it is only a blah of standing bored
in the same cordoned lines.
worse, i know
because my audience is as callous as i am,
whining about wanting to be heard,
trying to manage half-losing battles,
as if that is what life is all about--
a brutal tedium of that.
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10/11 "is" replaces "was" in the last stanza
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