Feed the masses on their leather sofas
juicy murders, shrewd detectives, blood,
feisty women sleeping with their chauffeurs,
spotty kids with magic wands, a flood
of swoon-inducing swanking Casanovas,
dialogue packed with “guys” and “dude” and “bud”.
Unless you want to die a penniless nobody,
whatever you do, for Christ’s sake, don’t write poetry.
But if you can’t resist the Sapphic charms
and don’t mind dying in a flammable shoebox,
don’t feed the masses. Don’t, with open arms,
approach the peasants in their caps and Reeboks.
Don’t try to catch their hearts with silly rhymes.
Don’t rhyme at all, as rhyme’s for vulgar peacocks.
Vigour is the lowest form of roguery.
It’s best to run a marathon from poetry.
Poetry is not supposed to be popular.
It’s meant to alienate, confuse and bore.
It’s meant to be about as fun as scrofula,
as inspiring as some cat-sick on the floor.
Its meaning should only be visible through some binoculars.
It’s not supposed to sell, but be ignored.
Just fly to Thailand and fuck some ladyboys. Hopefully
you’d get a book deal out of that. But not poetry.
