Last Laugh

It’s not easy being a poet
who despises poetry,
one who believes 90% of all poets
are bullshit,
excited, snotty little shits,
so full of themselves they
can barely walk,
let alone write about things
they understand less,
poetry has become an abstraction,
a train wrecked shambles,
without rhyme but more importantly;

without reason.

I bought this journal and pen,
something on which
to write the new words,
the new thoughts,
a cornucopia of expression,
a symphony of sound,
a bright, white mass of exploding light,
a spattering of pure, unadulterated originality,
but now,
as I stare at these blank pages,
the realization occurs that
these new words,
are the same as the old words,
its has all been said
and said again,
used and reused,
just a different format,
a revised version,
only our simple-minded human egos
prevent us from seeing the truth,
let alone admitting it;

there really is nothing new
under the sun.

We titillate and capitulate,
until it all seems fresh and alive,
patting ourselves on the back,
creating monumental trophies and awards
for the same old bullshit,
reading the collected works of man
is like walking on a treadmill,
you struggle and work
but no matter how far you go,
in the end you’re right back
where you started.

Morrison had the last laugh,
he wasn’t a god,
not some mystic, warrior poet,
just a drunk who
liked to hump,
a degenerate,
a bold-faced, killer clown,
with the soul of a madman,
a pathetic little parasite
disguised as Adonis,
the ultimate masquerade,
yes, Morrison had the last laugh;

long live the king.
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