Poetry has nowhere left to go
And nothing else to do other than
Transcend itself, which first
Requires comprehension of oneself.
Lazy be the cells of a bard
Who sells out to the know-it-
Alls dwelling in ivory towers;
Academic shackles bind the mind!
Those ledger heads would have us
Take a street fight indoors
Where orderlies could constrain
The activities of each brain.
Bukowski believed in the RAW
Nothing wrong with how he saw
Although much needs to be said
About a well done prime rib proem.
An empty stomach grumbles
From forced fast on fury road.
Our ornery engine roars and rumbles
Dead do walk, as crow has crowed.
Outgrowth spawning sprawling tendrils
Innate protoplasmic insight reassembles
Some semblance of emblematic ascendance
Causing such a consternation, that holy heaven trembles!
* Except on Wall of Worthies – whereon rights are retained by respective authors.