if i were to listen
very
carefully
i can almost hear
the sound of keyboards clacking,
"tap-tap-tappity"
in darkened rooms
where silent monitors stand in silhouette
against the swirling-gray smoke
of cigarettes dangling
like whorish participles
from the lips of word groupies.
while a steady stream
of mad-verse-driven jism
d
r
i
p
s
down naked legs.
oh the glory of words, wordsmiths, poets!
ah, those clever masters
of baited verse
and brilliant-tormented prose!
it’s a slick manipulation of self-worth
and almost poetic justice
that allows every groupie to believe
those pretty lines
were penned just for her
and him
and her.
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
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1 comment:
God. Can't believe a poet could ever fall into that circle jerk daisy chain of ego stroking groupies feeding upon his/her ego and weakening him/her like mosquitos.
Well, okay. I guess I can believe it. But how re-tar-ded of said poet(s)? And how vain of said readers?
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