Thursday, 26 February 2009


God damn this right and wrong.
God damn this sing song,
Do I need to spell it out for you?
Do I need words like
"Fire" and "carcass,"
To stretch the fingers of this poem,
And make my words lithe
Like Chinese athletes?

My meter is the jigsaw pavement,
The filth and the broke stone
Old and solid, while you obsess
About mathematics.

God damn it.
Poems have evolved beyond
The naked word that stood
Small on Elizabethan stages.
Or wowed us like ballerinas
With bone-cracking precision.

Poems are just brief notes.
That brush the face awake.
God damn this quibble quabble,
Your rule books,
Your neatly stacked Bibles,
Locked away in glass cabinets.

Poems are just quick flames.
Deal with it.

No comments:

Post a Comment