Poem against poetry

[horatioalone]

I hate that martyred tone that poets use—
you know the one. As if they’re Joan of Arc
lashed to the stake. The fire begins to rise,
they make some grand pronouncement—poof! They’re ash.
Bugger their righteousness, I say. They’re poets,
for God’s sake; W. H. Auden said
(correctly) “poetry makes nothing happen.”
Bards, troubadours, and minstrels ain’t no saints.
Want me to scoop my heart out with a spoon
and eat it publicly? Oh, sure, I’ll do it,
but don’t expect to find a message there—
for that, you’d best provoke a mad street preacher.
It’s getting dark… I’ve been out here all day.
Well, why are you still here? The poem’s over.