A poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret sufferings, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music . . . and then people crowd about the poet and say to him: "Sing for us soon again;" that is as much as to say, "May new sufferings torment your soul."
You thought the plumbing in disrepair
The measured sound of repeated drips
Until, they like bars of melodic nuance
Plotted a rhythm — plop - splash - plop
And you could catch this tune and add
Your own syncopation to it—
You moaned and swayed caught
Between the clutches of self imposed
Orgasmic delight and pride!
A modern equal to Bach—
Having put it altogether finally
In such ecclesiastic personification
That God and all his saints must too share
In your personal glory.
Plop - splash - plop, the tears fall—
Share on Facebook
Tweet about this Piece
Poor Mojo's Tip Jar: