As our odd year comes to a close
I can't help but reflect on those
that contributed to a pile
of quite obscene headlines, all while
parading their precious egos.
As our odd year comes to a close
I can't help but reflect on those
that contributed to a pile
of quite obscene headlines, all while
parading their precious egos.
we had just one job between us,
but no one can remember it;
and loathe to cause another fuss
we hold our tongue as they discuss
the next great swindle they'll commit.
we operate on hints of hope
and though we've toiled and sweat and bled
all our chances have long since fled
sliding down that slippery slope
to rest among the rich instead
You can see it in the distance,
approaching closer every mile,
with knotted hair, a hungry smile,
and a thin, shrill cry, like a child,
almost singing in insistence.
Invite them, so as to lure them,
amuse, feed and reassure them;
and when your foes feel safe and calm
slip the cords on and secure them
to be dispatched without a qualm.
Your words spilled like so many jewels
in this place and, though you might think
it would benefit you, it fuels
your antagonist's machine. Fools
were we when we abandoned ink.
Best avoid 'I' in poetry;
forced first-person alienates,
and hints at your autolatry.
Second-person isometry
will preserve the salient traits.
What is this product that you sell?
It seems like angry hopelessness
delivered with outspokenness
revealing your own brokenness,
and yet you thought it would compel?
I write poetry, but for what?
Who reads in this way nowadays?
For a world tuned to old cliches
an idyll may as well be smut,
and I a peddler of flawed phrase.
Despite a meteoric rise
she lops her surgical career.
Professions just don't pay, my dear.
Oh, but grift does! That's no surprise!
Keep your soul as a souvenir.