Call to Calm.
I implore you
To the nubile fans
Who’re jiggling while they’re gathering
On causes you’ve forgotten
As soon as the words are spoken
Enough passionless prose
On the nature of that bloody rose
You compare to the bloody girl.
I tell you Poet one of one thousand.
I heard enough empty noise
I’m sick, SICK I say
Of pseudo girls and boys.
I beseech you,
Throw OUT the affected afflictions
Stop writing from that place you don’t see.
The kitchen sink.
Put down your Byron and Ginsberg
Tell me what you really THINK.