A poem
is an ending.
There are no beginnings,
with the written word,
unless you deal in
fiction. And I
prefer to stick
with the intangible.
Poetry isn’t glamour.
He tells me
that poetry is sweat
and blood, and
I say
“No.”
Poetry is urine
in pristine labeled
bottles,
excrement from the
bored, who just
happen to be
inspired.
There are no beginnings,
here.
My poetry has
become a weapon.
I wield it unscrupulously.
I smash
the pristine
bottles on the shelf,
and the liquor stains –
a poem is a
liquor stain
on the carpet,
starting yellow
and fading to mere
slight
discolour.
Melancholy
blankets all prose.
(I hit the
ENTER
key too
often.)
This poem
is the cigarette
burn, in my
dress slacks.
Here
there can be no
beginnings.
Only means
to ends.