i am not fazed by spurious notions
of what is good or what is bad
i just flip open that temporal wallet
& spend (it’s like getting laid
or tying one on & imagining X
could well be my imaginary friend
or else i simply steal someone else’s
idea (it’s true i have no shame
laughing in the face of those fogey
poets who call meh “a disgrace”
to them i bellow simply that my
muse must be obeyed (and paid!
who said that art’s god’s way of
helping us pass the time? what rot
equally crap’s the notion that we
write to please this so-called god
do i write to illuminate some trace
of time on a sky’s tight canvas?
to harp on about beauty? no!
(unless it be a sniper’s silent gun
i’ll trade both the names i call
myself for ern’s eponymous knacks
the only mystery is how far i’ve
come without being hit by jitches!
for an undisclosed sum i’ll gladly
write an ode to the constitution
& for not much more i’ll pen a laud
to a common or garden hose
whatever the turgid coolhunters
recommend as being of the now
i’ll damn with my seething stanzas
(yea i’ll even consider it fascist
like mosquitoes trapped in amber
they’ll learn to regret their fads
& those requiring elegies (or funeral
songs will simply have to wait
theoretically I’m something of a prick
(i’m not too proud to admit
to prostitute my talent thus while
so many good poems beg to be –
but I must somehow make the down-
payments on my Etruscan villa
& for those of us in the industry
this means writing is simply a job
i am poet momentous (no more
moody or sleepless nights for meh!
i’d rather see my poems on greeting
cards than yell at empty chairs
now there’s no poem that can match
the noisome grandeur of war –
but at least i can think about peace
while praising cheap champagne
“A Poet of the Moment”
B. O’D. (date)
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