for Tony
barbie is a beatnik, too
bend that plastic whore into any pose
you like
and remind her to snap her scripted digits
look at Ken in his black turtleneck
pretty bastards all in a goddamned row
pretend to understand
or is it – enjoy? – the poetry
none of them remember
they know how to act reverent and drink coffee
just like old Kerouac
old Corso
old Ginsburgrexrothsandersburroughsnyder
all did the exact same things
at the exact same time.
but what the fuck do these plastniks know
of Thoreau’s makeshift cabin at Walden?
of Longfellow, of Frost, or of the greatgrandfathers
mothers
of wordfunk?
have they bent their backs or their brains
or split their polygooperated knuckles?
have they drunk a truly guilty tea?
Or just contemplated the colour black?
But don’t break them, Poets of the True Universe.
Beat them across their patented behinds
with stronger verse.
Teach these blind rats with your most
colourful and beautious switch
that they might mean to muster
mindfulness
wit
soft ears and hard tongues
not poisonous, but heavy
let them free themselves fully
so they might dig
where no ground was broke
And if they still don’t get it,
ah, what the fuck can you do
but to turn yr rusty tail
and read yr opuscules
to the flowers.
“Haiku” for condemned souls
O soul of pity
shine upon the grey and bleak
set their hearts ablaze!