Give us a Dead Poet

We dislike poets
because they perpetuate their frivolous soul
and perform a parade of riffs with our words,
wear tweed jackets under a steaming sun,
chase with a red pen lads who don’t cite Burns,
and trample our streets back to their high ceilinged cubicles
to feed from the fetor of confiture
and vagrancy.

We hate poets…
because they exact from the universe
our love when it’s ripe, and inscribe with their stylus
a false order and decry they’ve hearkened our blunt anecdotes,
only to rape them on top of their razor strops,
and still make it their cause
to prevent us from speaking
naturally.

And yet… we would’ve pardoned you if only our life
hadn’t gone amiss in your stirring,
because you’ve never loved,
have not loved,
will not love,
ever.

Our words, our streets, our love, our life, your stirring…
See?
We dislike poets,
we hate poets,
but give us a dead poet,
an extinct poet,
someone who doesn’t write anymore:
dead poets are the only good poets for us.