To empathize without restraint
is strangely suicidal —
you rambling fools content
to write yourselves another Bible
have traveled long to Magdalene
to drink the never-ending,
but you’ll be delayed in yards
to wait for merchants ever-spending.
Here to sit and grit the worst
of epitaphs and clichés –
It’s all been said. Pass the pipe.
Would you buy a crab from me, please?
Then as sure as Galilee’s whore
they’ll want to know the reason
why one so young and atrophied
should tamper with such treasons.
You’ll reply with tongue of fire,
that there are things along the way
one must get straight before the flood
before the Day of Days.
Your forehead gnaws, you raise
yourself, you rush into the street –
a woman passing by in rags
flashes attention to your feet.
Wash not these feet with your hair of straw,
I’ll need them along the way.
You poets are all alike somehow-
trying to die for love or hate,
but your pompous ass will die in vain,
they’ll carry you to your grave
they’ll mumble words and epitaphs
that you’ll know are just more clichés.
Her cup of angst will outlast love
though gorged to the brim with flesh –
you’ll reply to the rest of the group
that your exit is clear of regret,
you’ll brace yourself with dove at temple,
scream as if for rain,
To die for death, now there’s a fate!
‘It’s all been’ said can’t touch or name.