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real poets

17 Aug

Real poets

Leave spaces

Make stanzas

Keep words separate so that

When read aloud they can be

Enunciated

They do not let the syllables fall all over each other, running wild, desperate to be read, sliding as though covered in oil and mud and stumbling down the hill, whiskey bottle in hand, tumbling into a mish-mashed pile in tufts of green and brown grass, with dirt stained knees and bloody elbows and a sweaty forehead, speckled with sand. They let their words

Breathe

They don’t make them feel breathless and broken, with each letter as unimportant as the next, but how they work together, in strings and rhythms, pulsing out the beat.

I’m not a real poet, I like to make the words build up, layers of paint, flaking away, not writing on the road, not living in the war zone, not making dusty references to alley ways and whispers and sad, wrinkled faces, caught on camera crying out, because when I see these things, words escape me, they get out of the ink, and so instead I find myself as jumbled as my words, racing at breakneck speed to jump in and out of these sheets, your sheets, water, waves, splash down, face down, on cobblestone, or marble tiles, or staircases leading to penthouses over  looking the glass Egg on starry nights, with coke fueled suits in liquid transactions in burlesque clubs on avenues that are hard to find, unless you have already seen what was going on, on couches on terraces under clear skies where it never rains, and then we have to start to begin again, with the new kind of Manson, he’s short and he’s bearded, but still making bread and the ladies will stab away at each other, metaphorically, until strawberry juice bleeds out of pink grapefruits and he offers her the bed, the bed the bed, which is mustaches and pitas and pink beer and wild dogs roaming the streets, but it’s raining in Costorphine, which you have to take the bus to, have to take the bus to, the twenty-two doesn’t go out this way, but it takes you straight up from the bedroom where all my paintings are, and how does he bring a girl back here, with my face everywhere, well, some of them are dumb enough to close their eyes when they come in the dark way, the back way, and I just kep on running, first star to your left and straight on til morning.

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