Friday, February 20, 2015

the poet

So there he sits
the dunce, the dullard
the toerag
the eternal glowing optimist
cigarette drooling
on unscored paper, what kind
of fool is that ?
This white man deserving
of nothing
but contempt
waiting on a line or two
to drop into his lap
as ash
without the sense of timing even
to call it quits
what kind of truant is that ?

His poems, should he promise any
ought to go unanswered
breakfast for the institutionalized
the terminally sedated
God help us
they replace pistons, rods
with processors
so he may perch steeped in wanking
a bona fide effrontery
what kind of damned idiot is that
where are his credentials ?
who encouraged him in the first
to sit all day hatching piles
while leftovers
stink up the place unattended to
and people come knocking
just to ensure
that he has not done us all a favour

what kind of a waste is that ?



I believe I liked the original version of this poem best. This one seems too polished. The other rubbed a rawer nerve. More curmudgeony.

All that said, we institutionalized still are deserving of our breakfast, no matter what drivel it may seem to the cafeteria slop-jockey.

I await the falling ash with bated breath.

ib said...

You could be right.

It tied me up like a deck chair, and would not let me go. Sometimes the worst thing is the act of putting on an editor's hat. One fucking hat is enough for any sane person.

Once again, thank you for your feedback.