All entries for Saturday 26 March 2005
March 26, 2005
So what if Iím a poet?
So what if you know it?
Should I present to you a few poems on parchment?
Try to pick out the few arenít terrible,
And wonít scare you?
Try to trick you into telling me
Iím actually quite talented.
Iím not. Iím just deluded, obsessed and
Sometimes that looks like talent,
But itís not.
Itís a twisted tin chain,
With delusions of silver.
Itís a clay pigeon you pretendís the real thing.
But illusion smashes when you shoot it,
Or when it falls on your ears.
So what if you care?
Iím not a performing pony,
Turning cute little tricks
For you to sigh at and say
ďAhh, thatís so sweet!Ē
Iím not even a performing poet
My words are mine, and ours alone,
No one can put them in their mouth,
Steal them away.
My words are for me
And my band of poetical brothers,
The metaphorical masses of my fellow unwanteds.
Iím a romantic revolutionary,
A poetical partisan
Iím the Pablo Neruda
Of the middle class white angst-filled male.
Iím the fucking Che Guevara
Of the rejected lover,
Leading the romantic revolution,
A non-military coup on emotion,
And with our banners of metaphor
Our uniforms of simile
Our rifles of oxymoron we will overthrow
ĎNice guys unite,
Itís time to be bastards!í
The Marxian slogan of a younger,
And girls like you will see,
How nice guys are in fact just great.
But by then weíll have thrown off
The shiny tin chains of our oppression,
And claimed our rightful place
Above or beside
As we decide.
So if you think that Iím a poet
Then whether or not you know it,
If the poetic revolution comes at all
Youíll be the first against the wall.
Now tell me that you care.
So then you liked me
And then I felt smug.
In mourning for nice.
Yet there was no time for mourning,
When finally I had you,
(And in the having, lost you too)
The sum of my pathetic fantasies
That I had to lose, then missed
And amongst the crocodile tears,
Who I thought more wild and dangerous
Than my tears,
But now are tamed by my lack of thought.
So the you that I had found
Was not the one I sought.
And you found me in the change around,
Due only to the cruelties that we wrought.
For when niceties failed,
Sitting in the corner
I watched your lips curl into a laugh,
(I glimpsed you through mindís shadows)
Imagination might have made you snarl,
At my words that never were elegant enough,
To capture the illusion,
Nor shrewd enough to reveal delusion.
Harsh words eventually reached your ears
In a circle of slanderous gossip,
The adolescent equivalent
Of throwing paper balls in nursery,
And I saw you snarl,
(Teeth ripping fantasy away)
Though it could have been a smile,
At my lies that proved I cared.
(Cruel, no longer wonderful, you)
The dream became real,
Empty air became ice,
Then I realised you werenít ice, just nice.
And I no longer wanted you.