The Poet
there is no room for the poet to sit
he is in the standing room only section
even though there’s 3 people there for the reading
the poet looks at nothing in particular
and sees everything
he is the disease
and he orgasms the cure
the poet is at his strongest
right after reading the masters
he bows knighted into dust
and from the dust he shall rise
this poet thought it would take a lot more cigarettes
to finish this piece
he will smoke the rest later
when the decent line eludes him
and he daydreams of sex instead
the poet dies in the end
he can tell by his book sales
there is no place for him
other than to chase elusive beauty
like a stripper that talks to him
even though she knows he has no money
the poet will follow her to a beanbag chair
back at her place where there is no lighting
and cry on her nipples
and she will rub them in her pink
till they are castles dripping with holy oil
she wore her cross
and she liked it when he nailed her
the poet will go off topic
to devote a few lines to a stripper
and find his way back to the subject
when the loneliness of the blank page passes
and his wife stops snoring
see the poet is drowning
and all he wants to do is
pull you under with him
with a few metaphor meteors
simile smiles
and altercations of alliteration
has he placed a pleasing offering on the altar of beauty?
he can only wonder
and the poet is not talking about a facebook thumb up the ass
he is speaking of that dark cavern
where beauty fornicates with beauty
and a connection of light illuminates
the poet’s beard catches fire
when phantasms such as this occur
the poet has lost his athleticism
his tan
even his torso
all to make a stand
when everyone else was sitting
he is a gunslinger
a cat whisperer
a lover in black and white movies
you’ve seen him a million times
but it feels like you are just now getting acquainted
the poet has killed his muses
he’s captured them like lightning bugs
has kissed them goodbye
has written them long unanswered letters
the poet has no generation
he is of the family of God
he is not of this world
shhh it’s time to go
Jesus said “a prophet is never welcome in his hometown”
will you run with the poet to his car
with the old upholstery
dusty dashboard
and change in the ashtray brightly smiling
where he will lull you to sleep with the turns of the wheel?
the poet knows lullabies
and prayers before bed
will you follow him to the cloud of the next town
to give a reading to gnats and pestilence?
has he taken you this far
only to leave you on the side of the road
or the end of the poem?
no
the poet’s eyes
are your own lonesome eyes
reflected in a pool of words
Horror Sleaze Trash 