Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

I'm not going to tell you everything is alright
because everything isn't alright, alright?
in fact nothing has been alright, since
oh, say since the dinosaurs cease to walk the earth
having said that it all has been fucked up ever after
but let's not forget all the great strides that have been
made by homo sapiens from cave to museum
we almost daily know more about those huge reptiles
and though we can sequence DNA we still cannot stop
the daily loss of another species, take the poet for instance
his kind are dwindling, going extinct, maybe not like
the tiger, or the rhino, but it is more slow demise

of his or hers particular ilk, it's not so much silken tongue
it's not for lack of human condition, not for lack of reasons
that they need to keep putting into words their outrage
their resistance to banal minds, their ecstatic drastic urge
the instinct to purge the feelings of loathsomeness, of spleen
today the poet is, has either become domesticated, or gleaned
of all that pent up rant, all that toxic mental pus, screened
they are, as they carefully write like they were trained to
to jump through the circus hoop, to be quaint and cunning
at the proper moment in the poem, to wink at the audience

a performer, more then a joker gypsy on the edge of their edge
walking the razor of drastic measure, of falling on your pen
a kamikaze keeper of the word going down in heavenly hell
today, the forgotten poet wanders like a cartoon ghost
once his spirit flamed in the city of lights, lit up until dawn
and then to crash and burn on the cheap mattress of novels
once he was a rare breed polishing the moon with a wild scarf

now poems are trotted out like the latest car model on the show
room floor, there are no bull fighters of the void these days
the tiger burning bright is now a recycled paper tiger
once poets were jousting with windmills, now they text their wares
on the page to the preferred reader, who is promptly moved on cue
so say adieu to the scallywag pansy fop assassin of language poet true

so what have to say the mamiferous poet...?

hey, not all things can be controlled or predicted or readable, you know it well ...! mmm...you really want an adieu & still be a rare breed polishing the moon with a wild scarf ?

(enjoyed it!)

i have considered this....there was poetry before the internet, there is now something
called poetry with internet, is this a distinction? My answer is the things always change, things are also proceeding at a different rate. Will poetry endure, this exceleration, it is going so quick, do we even see it? A cheetah runs so fast, yet we can still see it. Do you want to run with the cheetah, or do you want to keep up with words in the internet age? Do I even know what I am talking about? How would I know, I am no cheetah, but I can imagine what a cheetah feels like running because I have read poetry before internet came. My moon polish. :