by Nevs Coleman

Call to Calm.

I implore you


Enough pose

Enough poise

Enough pandering

To the nubile fans

Who’re jiggling while they’re gathering


Enough posturing

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.

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