Poetry Should Be Dead

Poetry is great because no one cares,

To listen to words and meaning,

To sounds of emotion and thoughts,

Awashed ashore upon public rocks.

And it can be bad.

Terrible.

Horrendous even.

And sincere.

That’s what’s great talking aloud,

And still thinking nothing for value;

You get to know no one hears.

But does it rhyme?

Does it keep time?

Does it chime?

Or is it pompous and pretentious and pedantic,

Graining and grotesque and overly romantic?

It’s great for that,

It turns off and away,

The people who shouldn’t hear,

What you need to say.

And I’m sorry if you’re here,

Listening, reading, or glossing over,

Fooling yourself that this is deep and thoughtful.

It’s not.

Honesty is not something to be enjoyed,

Or rewarded.

I’d rather pay for lies and comfort,

Than sully someone with taint of money.

No one should pay rent with pain,

Remodel the kitchen with selves,

Nor give talks on saying nothing.

Poetry is bad.

So be bad.

Be terrible.

Be.

And see.

Make no sense,

And you’ll find people who’ll do the work for you,

Because maybe they’ll learn about themselves,

Through you,

A mirror of people you aren’t.

And I hate you.

Because you’re who I must cater,

And reflect,

And amuse,

And touch.

If I touched your heart I’m a hero,

But if I touched you in desperation,

I’m a pervert.

I can’t just go ahead,

I must plan and predict and postulate,

Pontificate and wait for your applause to abate,

And we all pretend this isn’t one big intellectual masturbate.

I’m glad this is dead.

I’m glad none of this means a thing.

Because it finally means that I can be.

The irony of death is you have never been more alive,

As insects and bugs and bacteria eat you from inside,

But you’re done,

Give others a turn.

With all due respect,

To Yeats, Dickenson, Wordworth,

To the beats and bards,

To Homer and the gods,

I’m glad you’re dead and gone,

Because we get to be honest for once.

#HI