the reason those paintings sell for so much at auctions, is because, unlike poems, you've invested in oil paints, brushes, the canvas, a space to do the work... with poems you don't really need raw materials on such a scale, obviously a manuscript might sell, but never in the range of a painting; poets don't invest much in writing a poem, or if they do, it's treated like an ***** donor's bits-and-bobs - hey! turn on the conveyor belt of recycled heartbeats! we have one dying over here, and another needs a transplant! turn it on, we're not stopping for one ******* or another! but i ask you, is this really such a cold harsh reality, when compared to a graveyard? and that moss on the gravestones, and the forgotten mourning vigil of actual relation?*
i don't know why liquor is such
a sin, to so many people,
i once exclaimed: 'do you know
any other potent sedative?!
i don't, and sleeping pills don't work
without the intake of alcohol;
i know, counter-intuitive,
so where did you stash the barbituates?'
well if not a party drug to dumb-down
i drink and sedate myself,
i'm a turtle after a while,
although a turtle that still types things
down... like now...
let's write a pop poem:
got the munch, feel a hunch,
both are on my back...
poached a pear, stalked a grizzly bear...
felt it was all one, big, india's independence
day funfair. how's that? hmm... humph!
telephone Sweden for me, and tell
them i called asking for secretary Nobel
in the archives of time...
i don't like what i write, maybe that's
because i just write...
and i write... and write... and write...
elevate writing above slaving
at the plumbing or the light-bulb
and suddenly the world enlarges itself
in its commotion...
and a little fading grey dot emerges,
made exponential by your ego;
but i guess you can say o grand *******
when you write on the sly...
i can see poetry as a transcendental medium
from chop, charge, chop, charge,
chop, typo, chop, typo, chop, buzz,
chop, buzz, chop chop chop, typo... charge,
well d'uh, but how to capture a
transcendental conversation without
actually abusing the art into one's own escape
plans, like the inverse of suicide...
how to capture a convo... convalescent and
readied for more...
you're taking that poem up a mountain
to shout it out loud?
do that on the plateau of a marketplace
and ready yourself to shake hands with a straitjacket;
because that's how we now live.