No one wants to read
your pretty little poems
she said,
drink the **** yellow ink
from the cowards pen,
write about the early
morning ****** puking
in the gutters, drunks in
alleyways wrapped in
coffee stained news papers
snoring with the crack heads
and sewer rats, dreaming of
long legs and two dollar wine.
Give me music that makes me
cry, give me bombs on city streets
a young soldiers missing legs,
give me the sound of an insane
saxophone from forty stories high.
Give me death - lust - fire!
give me back the hum drum
rhythm of the beat poets -
for gods sake tell it how it is
give me the awful truth
after all that’s all there is …
Clay.M