A reading of this poem can be found at the following link: http://youtu.be/X7LTKTmmRXM
An endless effigy of infinite romanticism
which is promised to endure the constraints of over a thousand years
is encased within poetic stanzas evermore,
for what a poet can teach you in life,
their poetry can teach you in death, the truthful touch
of their agenda holding sway long after their bodies have succumb
to the bludgeoning of a long forgotten millennia.
Even when all who once loved them with a great allotment of endearing passion
have disappeared into the boundaries of death’s universe,
the name of the one who put pen to paper
to express a symphony of regretful love and opinionated torment
continue to be remembered, their voice coming through
from across the divide as though they never really left at all.
But then there are others, I especially,
whose memory shall barely be held onto after the shroud of death
takes my hand in hers. Much unlike the talented poetic legionnaires
of our society, whose professionalism has been passed ever so continuously
from reincarnation time and time again, similarly to the cat
who has crossed the road for the ninth time, the receiving
of another rejection letter sends me into an inescapable delirium
of unwanted anguish. In this hour I am supposed to be victorious
in my pursuit of the perfect poetic piece, the bitter taste of defeat
is all that falls upon my tongue, despite the humbled beginnings
offered at the orchestration of this passage writ.
To ensure the moment after the final stanza falls upon the ears of many
is not one of total embarrassment, treachery and theft
may well become the desperate measures of a man
wanting more than he has been offered by the conveyer of our fates,
and when I do disappear from the realm of the living spirit,
I wish for there to be tears that fall like hail,
rather than the total lack of any actual memory.
To die sad, alone and afraid between the covers of a poetry anthology
50 years out of print is not going to be my end, and with the exception
of becoming a ventriloquist doll in the hopes of having someone
more intelligent than I, commandeer this mouth of mine
to make certain a word of beauty does fall from between my teeth,
I study the works of others to better understand the role I wish to play.
There’s a poet I know in Arizona, who with but one word
can captivate enthrallingly the attention of even the weariest soul.
There’s a poet I know in New York who refuses to use full stops,
and by the time you have finished reading, you are lying on the ground
unconscious. There’s a poet I know in Florida
who refuses to read the work of others,
for she thinks her ears, which are ever so delicate, are a precious commodity
not to be risked on work she considers below par.
There’s a poet I know in Canada who expressly writes about his daughter,
so if tragedy should strike its chord and she be left alone,
never will it cross her mind that she was ever without love.
There’s a poet I know in the Philippines
who only ever writes pieces about heartbreak,
and yet, for a broken heart to happen there must have originally been love,
but never is such an emotion spoken of.
There are poets I know in England who write only about depression,
and who obviously need a recalibration of their repertoire.
But for all I think I know, the knowledge I hold within me
is little more than nothing, for I read once only the old,
renown for serving in poetry wars long forgotten to time,
who are naturally mummified by skin so ancient
it is pulled taught across their defeated frames,
continue to give a little more of themselves
each day to the enduring poetic art,
in the hopes it may outlive the celebrity that is Chappell Corby.
It is then that I hear of a well aged white wine which goes by the name
Kevin Brophy, and if I were to grow on him like a wart
and steal his unfinished masterpiece before it fills a canvas
whole, I could call it my own and receive the love of many.
For this to reach the epicentre of fruition, I shall become
the chalk to his cheese; the Hyde to his Jekyll; the asp to his Cleopatra.
Once this has happened, and I have been brought
the mind of Kevin Brophy, I will come to poetic readings,
not to hear the words that once paraded inside the minds
of those within a community far more intelligent than I,
but to find vixen’s whose beauty is beyond the apex
of my desire, so I may write a poem of their lustrous features
and encapsulate and immortalise this gorgeousness
for the world to still acknowledge a thousand years from now,
and tonight, my poem shall be written about you.
Above all else however, I will write so poem hating zealots,
who dare to criticise what they cannot control;
who are fuelled by the bleeding heart of literature,
as they drown their inebriated ignorant existences
in Molotov cocktails, are forcibly flogged
by a metaphorical chain, comprised from the bones
of unforgotten poets who died to have their words
read by legions in futures that were at the time
yet to be conceived, so they hear the better work of others
like a bout of tinnitus, and if I were a woman,
I would be an Amazon, and I would rip their hearts
out from between their barren bones and show it to their face,
so they might know the words of beauty
which were to be injected into the palpitating muscles
by a poet’s thoughts, which have now been replaced
by the utmost fucking torture of damnation forevermore.
This ability I would always secretly owe to Kevin Brophy,
whose adept creativity I plucked like the virginity
of a fair angel. But when this day arrives, where in the world
would he be; this man who would, and I am certain of this,
be late even for his own obituary, where we would recite how he,
like many a manipulator of the written word,
fell foolishly for poetry, like all who are here now.