Shoot the Poet!

Written by: John Heck


Victors make me chortle.
Underdogs are most often ego-debatable
and intentionally deflatable.
Also-rans usually return and haunt -
their silenced homilies are
draped upon greased hangers 
riddled with semi-grimed defeat. 
Me, I shuffle my filthy laundry,
to a nameless immigrant's 
dry cleaning domicile;
forcing those wanton beggars 
into cherished heathened sniggers.

Vagrant epoch odes are spic & spanned -
aortas are far from being perfectly cleansed...
such as theirs? Such as mine?
for idled peasants rarely 
guffaw over me.
Will you twitter over me, pumpkin? 


Me - a lost survivor of Columbine?
Breathing and clutching an 
unread copy of Oscar Wilde's
The Importance of Being Earnest -
closing my eyes and envisoning
the corridors of a devoid insanity - 
Eno's transient noise poisons deafened ears.
Not mine...
not mine.


Am I...?

Thristy for a nuance-wanting -
albeit a goblet?
Gayana was mystical long before
plastic cups and synthetic dementia
became ignorantly fashionable.
Sir HG Wells was popular
long before nature staged an
unrehearsed implosion 
contaminating utopia -
flinging his choked larynx into
a poetic hibernation.
I watched him.
I studied him.

Am I...?

You see - I am seemingly comfortable 
in a humbled corner now.
Cinderella content.
Dunce-cap grinning - a box of quarter-inched nails 
enrobe my burnt shoulders,
in a sleek, camouflage couture;
emulating perfect homage 
against an imperfect, stabbing heritage.
Never mind me ...
God is certainly not responsible
for a babysitter's actions?


My apologies extend 
to no one. 
Not even to myself.
Accepatable sneers
force loners to bite their
precocious lips and wink -
fatten their flaps and one's 
obvious skin tags will soon
flitter, flutter and falter
into a snared stare.
Misanthrope's eventually bleed
a disappointed cauldron of formidable, 
pathetic lies -
tugging upon the deafened ears
of their
specialed someone.

Am I jaded...?

Cup your palms
below your perfectly chisled jaw.
Exhale slowly - then envelope the
weary wonder of him.
Let the aroma dizzy and dazzle;
a personal scent invades
your afternoon daydreams.
Unhappy with the results?
Surely I am... 
well then...

Do it!  
Do it now! 
Shoot me! 
Shoot the Poet! 

Forget it -

for I've already 

the man.