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
remains
their teeth bared 24/7
b/c they are against
everything,
including life...
2 comments:
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.
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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