Before i die, what could i write
should witticisms leap from my pen
to exorcise any lines overused & trite
& ensure no platitudes are uttered again
Will i acquire gracious patronage
to legitimatize my foolish nonsense
which scatters in concocted badinage
as i play the stranger to sober’s concept
Suppressing the inclination to be humble
i drink my fill of everything that i’m not
Tears spill, the house of cards crumble
delusions vex me like gordian knots
On the shady plains of elysium
i galvanize alexander of macedon
from paradise to quell my delirium
before it slips away into the unknown
Sadly my prose, sans grace celestial
is embarrassingly human
Found wanting, bereft of mettle
sparking no revolutions
Tales of mine burst at the seams
with implausibility & absurd claims
Like i hitchhiked thru the peloponnese
& persuaded olympia to host her games
Or how my songs, mistaken for bleating
were played to soothe zeus’ holy ram
so jason won what he was seeking
medea’s love & the golden lamb
Frozen; my poems teeter upon the cusp of insipid
because of a deficiency in my ability to see
those frigid pink slips marked wicked
within my subconscious’ misdeeds
I’ll never be a homer, kazantzakis, or sophocles
geniuses who did leave the gods astonished
My unrefined art is free, yet i fret i fleece
any unlucky enough to chance upon it

More Poetry

Back To Top