Fuck Off, Shitty Free-Verse Poet

 

Fuck off, shit slam-poet

soaking up at the bar,

convinced you really know wit,

convinced that you’re a star,

applause in ears as you stand

cocktail in hand, full of cocky

tales that entail your hand

on your cock, or your clit, with your Mockney

or Jafaican accent turned down

now that you’re off the stage,

to reveal you’re a slightly-posh clown

who affects proletarian rage,

waffling about yourself,

not even asking my name,

as interesting as golf,

convinced you’re deserving of fame,

fuck off, shitty free-verse poet,

head in the clouds and up your own arse,

full of no talent and desperate to show it,

informing me rhyming is a farce,

informing me rhythm has no soul

and that magical poetry flows from your pen,

flows from a deep and mysterious hole

that structured verse couldn’t even pretend

to describe in a million billion years

because poets who can’t be bothered to rhyme

are so vastly superior in all their ideas

and rhythm is dirt, is spiritual grime,

so Shakespeare was a dunce in tights

whose empty sonnets are meaningless,

and Blake and his tiger burn as bright

as daffodil-stalks in a bucket of piss,

and Oscar Wilde was a heart-dead void

whose jail-bound prattle leaves real poets cold,

real poets like you, who bravely destroyed

the fascist rhyme-filled yoke of old

with your freer-than-free free verse that shows

a heart that burns, a soul that bleeds,

in words that hardly differ from prose

and hardly anyone fucking reads.

 

 

 

—————————————————————————————————————

 

From “Disoccidented” by Alfie Shoyger:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Disoccidented-Alfie-Shoyger/dp/1999922859

 

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