i read the big shot poets & i just don't fucking get it by Rob Plath

i skim their books in the store
w/nicotine stained fingers
while hungover as shit

searching for something to make
the hairs on my arms stand up

but the strands remain flat
on my flesh much like their verse

their souls are as stiff as the uncreased
spines of their books
while the poets themselves are spineless

do they compose this stuff
while running on treadmills?

at some fancy desk while sipping
decaffeinated mint green tea?

while wearing slippers & a robe
& reading the goddamn newspaper?

where are the ones that are
beyond politics?

beyond history?

beyond self-preservation?

where are the ones shaking in a corner
somewhere like one-eared mutt

hemorrhaging whatever soul juice

their teeth bared 24/7

b/c they are against

including life...


G.D. Anderson said...

Another top jugular poem with no quarter given to establishment poetry. But man, it's only a poem. What can poetry do to actually change political consciousness, particularly in these tweeter times?
We are dreaming, man.

Anonymous said...

first stanza: establish the badass. bam. i read i smoke i'm hungover as shit. reading means i'm smart. nicotine fingers make me a badass. real poets are badasses. they don't run on treadmills or drink tea. they smoke cigarettes! and drink! nothing but soul juice baby. alright.


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