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Poetry is Not Beautiful!
(An indulgence, reposting a poem I wrote in 2007, forget when I posted it here, Kelsey's poem *Poet Program* reminded me... so it's HER FAULT!)
Poetry Is Not Beautiful
Poetry is not beautiful
poems are not even pretty,
not even
a little bit,
not even from any corner of the
I.
Poetry is willful, it is a Deceiver, it is the Jack
of the kingless and the Knave of foolish,
it is ugly and it is sinful, it lusts into
all realms that are held darkly in our heart
of hearts
where the fear breaks through
into waves of suspended animation,
into reckless abandon
and childish dreams built on the stilted frames
of castles that damn the sun and release
the hounds of war,
release the sick and the lame
to the limitations of our own fate,
resembling that finely etched gravity
of what we call "saving face"
Poems are filthy dirty and depraved insinuations
they are an earwig crawling through the ear
gnawing the brain through as it comes out the other side,
poems are despicable,
poems are disgusting--
they are riots of untold glory gone mad with desire,
they are flesh eating microbes of uncertainty
they are vultures waiting for the Poet's last throes
with gnarled and bleeding hands,
writing of nothing of absolutely nothing at all.
Poetry Is Not Beautiful
Poetry is not beautiful
poems are not even pretty,
not even
a little bit,
not even from any corner of the
I.
Poetry is willful, it is a Deceiver, it is the Jack
of the kingless and the Knave of foolish,
it is ugly and it is sinful, it lusts into
all realms that are held darkly in our heart
of hearts
where the fear breaks through
into waves of suspended animation,
into reckless abandon
and childish dreams built on the stilted frames
of castles that damn the sun and release
the hounds of war,
release the sick and the lame
to the limitations of our own fate,
resembling that finely etched gravity
of what we call "saving face"
Poems are filthy dirty and depraved insinuations
they are an earwig crawling through the ear
gnawing the brain through as it comes out the other side,
poems are despicable,
poems are disgusting--
they are riots of untold glory gone mad with desire,
they are flesh eating microbes of uncertainty
they are vultures waiting for the Poet's last throes
with gnarled and bleeding hands,
writing of nothing of absolutely nothing at all.