“There is no poetry in your hate,
there is no beauty in your incoherent yells.”
I don’t, I don’t yell at you.
It’s no wonder it’s nothing but hoarse-break-noise,
what with your neo-verse-verisimilitude–
echo “free love, free, free love”,
I am sore ‘n tired ‘n well, well, past dead.
but you mistake me.
I shout ‘n stamp ‘n stutter because I have loved,
‘n known it turn sour,
‘n I am not a poet of spite, but despite,
not a vocalist in time with bright beautiful new dawn,
but I sing low-half/step harmony,
with a used ‘n abused dawn sold by greased up jockeys in pin-striped suits.
nothin’ fancy, but damn if it ain’t affordable.
there is, there is beauty in discord,
‘n this time, this fuckin’ time,
we ain’t gonna fuck around.
ain’t no way, ain’t now way in hell
you’re gonna take this heaven-scrape yell ‘o mine.
so go chant your still-born verse,
while I write mine ’bout mine.
