Poets are losing their collective voice-
all I hear is muffled groans and accented
cries of laryngitis
might this
be
cries for freedom
where your own hypocrisy
chains the spine to the book?
The last time I was moved by words
it was the intonation of a pig's squeal
like the tires of my life
bring stress to a dead end.
A squeal telling me to walk
a straight line through a
late suburban labyrinth.
We're calling bluff on the politics
that inspires us to write a poem
that will make you vote republican,
just so you can write another on
poverty.
Poets waiting for inspiration
to fly through their open window
left gaping like an open sore
for the salt to sting the wound,
and splat into their ceramic Buddhi
in the form of a wingless sparrow.
Poets are lost
mid-sentence.
Commented on "these are my memories" by twixn, and "He invented the metaphor" by Ex.