Is it disease that sours the intellect?
Fame or notoriety viewed in any other
way exacts its toll in heresies; a mass
belief of factual fallacy is still no less a
fact. We’re in a poets’ cloister here –
and all too well aware of that.
A younger man would take his pen and
run; flee the savages who fawn around
the feet of idols incomplete, token men
and women who compete with flashy
jibes and trashy innuendo, deriding minor
scribes, write with fleas for eagle’s eyes.
Where I’ve scratched the rashes red and
raw, bound the bloodied stumps of limbs
torn less from anger than distress a lick
of passion won’t redress this sorry state.
The ashes of a cold and dead cremation
make a better place to start afresh.
So fade to black, start anew and cut the crap.
Save your adulation for those figurines on
crowded shelves in gaudy porcelain; read
the verse and think again – will it mean a
goddamned thing in twenty years? Breathing
in a heady here-and-now won’t alter that.
© 14 June 2007, I.D. Carswell
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