Looks akin to having a virago For a wife, always berating You to stop wasting Precious time writing Trash, verbally Thrashing you with her God, why can’t you write off What you’re doing and do something Constructive for a change, Like take out the garbage Tout de suite, anything Anything to show me how Much you value your fleeting, Stinking life.
That perpetual Refugee from darkness, Our old friend Rosy-fingered dawn— Let us greet her With splendiferous sips Of angelic light served On flower-bedecked verandas Overlooking the wine- Dark sea and not—by Zeus— With panoramic views Of an odoriferous Aegean Aflower with corpses Taking our breath away.
Oh dear, it looks like Your next poem’s well On its way to turning in To your latest nightmare— What to do? For crying Out loud, choke it— You wouldn’t want it To end up stalking You too, would you?
Friend, awake you pretend You’re sharp, alive and kicking, acting Up, one step ahead of the world again— Asleep, five will get you ten you see Someone tripping over his lines, A ham actor falling perfectly on end, Flat on his face again and again.
What is it that takes So long to appear before you When you’re down, down, down? You spend forever waiting For some sign of it Before you're goners When the herald’s already Winging it to the next town.
So sick of hearing Of the death Of this unacknowledged Legislator of the world And of that, I cannot
But think in these mean times How many have come before And how many are yet to come And how many after that— A distressing, unceasing line
Of well-meaning poets Dead or alive or yet to be Strung out and scrawling across An indifferent, chaotic universe— It doesn’t get much better than that.
It’s true, Narcissus— Even the reeds up- Right in the water look To be bending over For a closer look; But look again— Is it going To be the same Stream tomorrow?