Wednesday, August 11, 2010

Open Mike

Poetry abhors a vacuum,
so wise old poets say.
Who gives a fig for wisdom?
I'll do it my way.
Sit still and listen
as my consciousness just flows.
Half an hour later,
as emerging from a dream,
ask yourself the question,
what did it all mean?

Anything you can say
I can shout louder,
louder than anything
you throw my way.
See how I thunder.
See how I curse.
My words make no sense, but
they do not lack force.

Pretty, prissy poesie
tripping down the line,
all one with Nature.
Such harmony of mind
and body and spirit
is so very rare to find
in one so impossibly young,
so talented, so blind.

Wild eyes, wild hair,
wild words flying everywhere,
wild gestures, wild stares -
it means I'm quite emotional,
it declares my passionate side,
it shows I really cares.

I am the rebel poet,
with a pint glass in my hand.
Cursed be all convention!
Conformity be damned!

I am the rebel poet.
My metre's in my fist.
Death to the Establishment!
It's my arse they should kiss!

I am the rebel poet.
I'm the one to watch.
I see you heading for the bar.
Make mine a double scotch.

I enjoy open mike nights, but if you can't take the piss out of yourselves .....
The last line of the fourth stanza is not a misprint just a subtlety that anyone from Swonzee might recognise! Picked up the image on the internet. Not sure whose it is and I hope they don't mind me using it. It fits so well.

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