minimang
12-09-2010, 01:58 AM
Why Should We Listen to a Poet?
Why should we listen to a poet if he is just some scum
Who drinks vodka every morning, with lumps in his livers and his lungs,
Who pretends to think straight but will give his life to the sea
Just because he feels that he’s unwanted,
Who puts pebbles in her pockets to block the voices in her head,
Who fornicates with a lot of people and takes pills in a sanatorium,
With unfriendly visitations in his heart,
His brain, his dick, and his eyes; (poor baby)
Who’s in the place between out and within the living,
One foot on the land, the other in the water,
Who follows the piper and the green fairy dead on,
Who immortalizes eternity and dies
Immediately after a self-inflicted heart wound.
Who is rich and doesn’t know what to do with it
Except travel with an empty heart and a restless mind,
Who lives in the slums and sleeps in the park
And spends nights in jail, and purchases a revolver
And shoots his fellow poet on a jealous streak,
Who has no kind words to a human being but writes big words on toilet paper,
Who gives a prostitute an ear after getting his mouth cleaned with turpentine,
Who is delirious and sometimes act
As if he’s completely insane,
And, finally, who is never really really happy
And not fit to advise anyone?
It’s because those things that are decadent to him,
Serve as a burning sermon on the mount,
To toughen his senses, become petrified wood,
To survive the grain and relish the gourd,
The innermost layers of beauties and truths,
And entice us not to crave for the juicy pulp alone
But to welcome and accept the entire fruit,
The rind, the flesh and the seed—the epiphany of life.
Why should we listen to a poet if he is just some scum
Who drinks vodka every morning, with lumps in his livers and his lungs,
Who pretends to think straight but will give his life to the sea
Just because he feels that he’s unwanted,
Who puts pebbles in her pockets to block the voices in her head,
Who fornicates with a lot of people and takes pills in a sanatorium,
With unfriendly visitations in his heart,
His brain, his dick, and his eyes; (poor baby)
Who’s in the place between out and within the living,
One foot on the land, the other in the water,
Who follows the piper and the green fairy dead on,
Who immortalizes eternity and dies
Immediately after a self-inflicted heart wound.
Who is rich and doesn’t know what to do with it
Except travel with an empty heart and a restless mind,
Who lives in the slums and sleeps in the park
And spends nights in jail, and purchases a revolver
And shoots his fellow poet on a jealous streak,
Who has no kind words to a human being but writes big words on toilet paper,
Who gives a prostitute an ear after getting his mouth cleaned with turpentine,
Who is delirious and sometimes act
As if he’s completely insane,
And, finally, who is never really really happy
And not fit to advise anyone?
It’s because those things that are decadent to him,
Serve as a burning sermon on the mount,
To toughen his senses, become petrified wood,
To survive the grain and relish the gourd,
The innermost layers of beauties and truths,
And entice us not to crave for the juicy pulp alone
But to welcome and accept the entire fruit,
The rind, the flesh and the seed—the epiphany of life.