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.