Prelude

In all myriad of possible chances,
On how unlikely you have been
To discover such an obscure place
Buried deep under the cesspool
Among the unprolific and the ubiquitous:
The unpopular and the nonsensical;
It was no accident that you are here.
My frozen heart and soul touches
The blazing hearts of the reader
With feeble voice and shortened range:
A despaired mind filled with genial thought
Of self-righteousness and self-absorption
With one pang from your seething soul
Shall grant me benign eternal fire
That shall thaw this frozen heart
With your burning endeavor
From your responses and flattery
That seems belittled but precious
To the forsaken poet and his chilling poesy
of grave nothingness and haunting vanity.

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7 thoughts on “Prelude

  1. I think that all poetry– published or unpublished, found online or in a faded journal, finished or in revision–has mystery and wisdom to share with us. Then it falls on us to find it. And some surely speak poetry better than others. . .

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  2. I CAN’T REMEMBER WHY I TOLD YOU TO THROW ROBERT FROST
    IN THE TRASH CAN
    YOU SHOULD THROW ALL BOURGEOIS POETRY IN THE TRASH CAN
    how do you know if it is “bourgeois” poetry ?
    —————-anything published
    —————————————–
    authentic poetry:
    freedom from the grave
    the desperate desire to be free from the grave
    in the grave Misery becomes mud
    it likes to suck your knees
    can’t recall the last time you saw your toes ?
    standing there in the grave
    at first there was obsession with revenge
    but that grew thin—what was the point ?
    increasing barbarism in love
    you’ve known it for years
    the beast constantly covering its teeth
    corruption in slow motion
    seemingly private,
    your mind pictures itself 10 feet tall

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