Last Laugh

it’s not easy being a poet

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

of which they have no understanding,

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 new words,

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,

you end up 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,

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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