Fuck off, shit slam-poet
soaking up at the bar,
convinced you really know wit,
convinced that you’re a star,
applause in ears as you stand
cocktail in hand, full of cocky
tales that entail your hand
on your cock, or your clit, with your Mockney
or Jafaican accent turned down
now that you’re off the stage,
to reveal you’re a slightly-posh clown
who affects proletarian rage,
waffling about yourself,
not even asking my name,
as interesting as golf,
convinced you’re deserving of fame,
fuck off, shitty free-verse poet,
head in the clouds and up your own arse,
full of no talent and desperate to show it,
informing me rhyming is a farce,
informing me rhythm has no soul
and that magical poetry flows from your pen,
flows from a deep and mysterious hole
that structured verse couldn’t even pretend
to describe in a million billion years
because poets who can’t be bothered to rhyme
are so vastly superior in all their ideas
and rhythm is dirt, is spiritual grime,
so Shakespeare was a dunce in tights
whose empty sonnets are meaningless,
and Blake and his tiger burn as bright
as daffodil-stalks in a bucket of piss,
and Oscar Wilde was a heart-dead void
whose jail-bound prattle leaves real poets cold,
real poets like you, who bravely destroyed
the fascist rhyme-filled yoke of old
with your freer-than-free free verse that shows
a heart that burns, a soul that bleeds,
in words that hardly differ from prose
and hardly anyone fucking reads.
