502 Bad Gateway
(a work in process)
~~~

poetry
is to be found easiest, lying fatal-fetal amidst
the sewage of the blessed daily profane~mundane,
enslaved within the tyranny of everyday indignities,
encrusted within the indignities of diurnal tyrannies,
in the catch basin of sew-aged treatment  pools,
living as a perpetual unpublished draft,
locked behind Five Hundred and Two
Bad Gateways,
Emma Lazarus-yearning
to be free…

502 is an even number, the internet sages confirm,
equitably distributed with no regard to
pronouns,
disrespectful of any age, all creepy~seedy known gods,
equally unconcerned by the laws of **** poetica,
succinctly informing you to f*k off  with the elegant
sparseness of technical brevity,
a la vie moderne boulder,
repeatedly *****-fussy pushing back on you,
as we push a poem uphill

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The road to good poetic intentions is human-paved;
a utile fact,  so continue to insure-shod be thy feet,
when shedding writings of poesy, lest the hot asphalt of
low inspiration yet get the better of ye…or the gates
or the bad gateways,
502 in their number, lock you out,
and carry the day, have their way, and
fracture well honed words
into bits & pieces of letters, scraps of scrap,
“pebbles and ******* and broken matches and bits of glass”^

that all the king's servers and all the king's technicians couldn’t put together again coherently, your words but conscripts in a
vast wasteland of eternal drafts^^

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well you know this story, that one that has being asking
you to writ it/get rid of it/tell it finally,
a couple of times daily,
that poem, this be that one,
an amorality tale of rejections,
a precision guided
error message,
a HIMARS missive miserly
missilery projectile
rife with hidden %#&”postulations,
of the “what’s wrong with me”
garden variety

think of life as a series of serious, independently linked moments, cherish-able, composting  usurping cursing phrases
distinctly worthy
of re-sharing unto the befouled upper atmosphere,
directly communicating the texture of your experience^^^

Ah Goodbye
Hello Poetry,
rejection is thy middle fingered name!*

this befouled poem
was
begun: many years ago
completed: Jan 4, 2023 @2:11AM

When we met I thought I felt something
When we kissed I swore I felt a zing
But I was wrong about everything
Because you left me like I was nothing

Woke up today felt a limb missing
Found out I was just slipping
My mind off things that be
There can never be more than three
Got  screws unscrewed

I went dipping,
Didn’t realise that I may be tipping
Off the course ever so slightly
My matches lit up ever so brightly
But no fire lasted within me for that long
Done once, twice and now it’s a shabby form

Needed me a pick me up, got a coffee
Didn’t think it’ll help the cough up or a drop key
I wanted an out but stayed in,
Didn’t find work that played easy
Did all the courses but then I was greasing

My elbows for a fit form
Didn’t know better just hit random
Trying something to work in my day
Change the phase and ******* away

But nothing stood still when my screws went missing,
I was zooming then I was tripping,
Needed a steady shoulder to cry on
My shoulders stayed broken and corned off
Didn’t have anyone to half it up.
I laid waiting for the endless to be ending
The clock strikes half past seven
And I still stayed there laying for the clouds changing.