The Poet in Me
The Poet in Me
Any given poet longs to pour out
Immortal longings
Into stately passages
Of rhyming words and thoughts.
Bullshit!
I steal.
I plagiarize.
And I disguise
My machinations,
In an attempt to pass it off as “inspiration.”
I tell you I commute with nature
When I take out the trash
feeding it into the gaping galvanized mouth
Of a dirty receptacle
Shamefully displayed in
The seedy alley behind my apartment building,
Royally crowned with
A halo of flies.
Wearing a poorly-constructed wig,
A so-called artist films himself eating,
After performing a neurotic inspection of,
A hamburger.
Neglected go the skills, mandatory
To create artfully humorous paintings such as “Dogs playing Poker”.
In lieu (of real art), fans and critics accept pointless and poorly made films
Produced by scrawny and neurotic man-twig mutations,
As art.
And likewise, I venture to convince
Any given bi-monthly poetry publication,
That I thoughtfully, and profoundly,
Rap and ramble
When I barely have the patience
and/or attention span required
To spew out an elementary-school theme.
Creative?
Probably not.
Narcissistic?
Most likely.
Lazy?
Hell yeah!
And Hell yeah!
Holding up my rosary,
I “Hail Mary” hope
To one day find myself
With publishers itching to print
A 100-page (give or take) book,
Of whatever you want to call the crap I pass off as poetry,
With my name on it!
I likewise hope
My volume of so-called immortal longings bears the subtitle:
Selected poems,
With introductory notes,
And an afterword,
By Tim Young.
Any given poet longs to pour out
Immortal longings
Into stately passages
Of rhyming words and thoughts.
Bullshit!
I steal.
I plagiarize.
And I disguise
My machinations,
In an attempt to pass it off as “inspiration.”
I tell you I commute with nature
When I take out the trash
feeding it into the gaping galvanized mouth
Of a dirty receptacle
Shamefully displayed in
The seedy alley behind my apartment building,
Royally crowned with
A halo of flies.
Wearing a poorly-constructed wig,
A so-called artist films himself eating,
After performing a neurotic inspection of,
A hamburger.
Neglected go the skills, mandatory
To create artfully humorous paintings such as “Dogs playing Poker”.
In lieu (of real art), fans and critics accept pointless and poorly made films
Produced by scrawny and neurotic man-twig mutations,
As art.
And likewise, I venture to convince
Any given bi-monthly poetry publication,
That I thoughtfully, and profoundly,
Rap and ramble
When I barely have the patience
and/or attention span required
To spew out an elementary-school theme.
Creative?
Probably not.
Narcissistic?
Most likely.
Lazy?
Hell yeah!
And Hell yeah!
Holding up my rosary,
I “Hail Mary” hope
To one day find myself
With publishers itching to print
A 100-page (give or take) book,
Of whatever you want to call the crap I pass off as poetry,
With my name on it!
I likewise hope
My volume of so-called immortal longings bears the subtitle:
Selected poems,
With introductory notes,
And an afterword,
By Tim Young.
51-55, M