The Persistence of Poetry

16 02 2010

some things aren’t going to change
when we wake up tomorrow morning
you will still be a bitch and I will still be a fugitive

you will still be living in a world of squares and tiles
and I will still be writing, which nobody recognizes
as work

you’ve probably already quit reading this by now
or you are at least just skimming it
because you are deaf to me and blind
or something I’ve said has offended you

or you don’t think it’s poetry
just because it’s broken into lines

maybe you are right
maybe it never was poetry
maybe it never was music
maybe it never was love

maybe we were only in love with ourselves
and thought is was the other
and it has taken us five years to smother
our intentions and excuse our bad poetry

let me be more prosaic
I’ll still break it into lines
I would be more elegaic
but it’s a cold meal on which we dine

you are sick on your stomach
and I am sick on mine
for different reasons
though
ones I can’t define

yes, I’ll hide my iambics
and conceal my dirty rhymes
and think about all the times
I tried to touch you
and no
and no
and ‘no’s, like prose
broken into lines

am I missing something here?
no, you are missing something
only a fool bent on loneliness
would turn down a hot oil
massage

here is the message:
the message is in the massage
not in a barrage of fan mail
or tilted sympathy
or empty empathy

pardon me, I’ve lapsed into verse
again
it’s a curse I have, you see
yes, I know, you don’t think it’s love
and you don’t think it’s poetry.

poetry is repetition
and when we get up tomorrow
you’ll still be a bitch and I’ll still be a fugitive.

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