Black Poetry beats in me like a painful yellow fog

Murky, pungent, sucking life

This is garbage, you think

(Or maybe that’s me)

For Poetry is the thing Dickenson speaks of!

Hope singing, and the like

I bring a different kind of Word

Self-indulgent, maybe

But not if you really knew…

Well

Some of you do

Some of you do

We are the artists, yes the long-suffering Clichés,

Whose works, year-after-year-after-millennium,

Somehow still rings True

Life strikes down her yellow-gold-silver-blue

Splitting us all open, cracked as we already are

Shattering and shattering

You can almost here Zeus laughing in the skies while

Children are dying down here in spades

While so-called Gurus spew

Unrelatable but somehow edible

Spiritual vomit

People sinking knee-deep in it

Eyes wild, wide

Heads nodding, bobbing like Robotrons

Mouths lapping up regurgitated chunks

Hungry

Starving to ingest the One-Sided

Disguised as Salvation

Hands dripping with acid stench

Shoveling, scooping

Inhaling someone else’s excrement

Proclaiming it delicious

Denial is a Siren

A sweet Goddess of affliction

Who is so annihilating-ly believable

We all think we’ve got gold in our palms

Ever-fooling ourselves

So I take on the role of The Outcast

I must

This painful yellow fog beats out of me

(Go ahead and find it disgusting)

Not because I wish to be different

(Though, fuck you, I’m different)

But because mainly

I must be a Counter

To all the golden puke we cling to

Pretending that it is Soul