Unrighteous Self-Pity

If you know how to die you know how to live. Listen to Bryant In the basement by the light bulb. Live and Let Die Let Me Die First. (Release some air for the breathless) Die with a whole heart, unbroken, unfixed Die without orgasms Die at 47--Depression Die at ten and seven--Fell off the earth Listen to O'Neill I know this guy, I know his circles I've inherited his gift/curse of Seeing the insides of people through their pupils Blue, Hazel, Brown, Black, they're all the same They hate their lives but they don't show it They sob sitting on the cold steel toilet No periods, no commas, to hell with punctuation There's no poetry, no fiction, no prose Stop writing Stop drinking your coffee and Typing on your laptops Stop your romanticizing Nobody cares The best have already been You're only copycats and imitators and posers Amateurs The great ones dig deeper in the ground Away from you Read and don't write Or Do some math problems "Everybody needs math nowadays" Become a Doctor or a Stock broker Or Go turn to dust at your cubicle Do some slothful American job Communication Nation Industrialization Mechanization Machines run the nation People watch the machines And wet themselves And soil themselves And ejaculate Listen to Bob Dylan Was this good enough for you Poetry Soup, poetry.com, winningwriters.com? Did it make the minimum amount of sense? Was it modern enough for you? You're just like the rest of the jungle "Phonies" "Conformists" Praise be to Jean Marie Marchese, And Tony Bush, and Deborah Simpson and...Gods of the poetic universe If only I were a Premier Member