Poetic Idiocy

The sun touched my knee caps

Bold as cows in the grass

Waiting for the grasp

Of cold handed pain

Settling for rain

And I thought

I could be a poet

I lit my first cigarette-tasted like dirt,

Wet and spongy, made my drugged brain hurt

Like mint rolls; ice cold,

She curled up in my throat

Snuggled in my folds and slept her log life long

Whispering her lying so long

Exhaling on a hilltop and swinging

My imaginary golf club

Soaring swift across the grass

Ssss wish

And I thought

I could be a poet

I bought the write hat, you know.

Grey newspaper caps that smudge finger tips

And paint stained men’s dressed lips

Bear bottoms

No shoes.

Lied once or twice

Broke a few no commitment required laws

Graffiti on public property.

Took up gee-tar.

Or key-tar

Or whatever’s cooler

Or more ironically uncool

Because irony is always in fashion.

And if you can ironize or ionize

Infuse iron ions into fashion

You may as well buy the leather bound journal

And the bold leather

Waiting for rainy writing

Says loveless lines without real heart

And it’s all just false aptitude

Definitive language is more rude.

And the F-word for shock value is overused

New vile language required for future parental denial.

And I thought I could be a poet.

But not once did I think

I am a poet

And therefore couldn’t be.    

                                         R.H. Carew