"If I had any real balls, I'd be a poet."
- Daniel Woodrell
That line has become my mantra.
Every day when I sit down to write, it's the first thing that pops in my head. Because the act of writing, creating a story, novel, screenplay, whatever, it takes balls. .But being a poet ... well, you know going in that you're creating art for art's sake, and you have to admit, there's something noble about that.
Noble and maybe just a tad bit masochistic?
Anyway, for my 5-2 Blog post, I figured I'd get my narcissism and masochism on, and post a new poem.
Hope you like it.
How I Know She Loves Me
She
squeezes my hand,
and palms
me the twenty.
It's
grimy, slick with sweat
and age.
She moves
to kiss me,
but I
avoid her lips,
And guide her to my rough cheek
because
of the cold sore.
My beard causes it to seep,
she flinches as she pulls away.
I tell
her I'll be right back,
we both
know that's a lie.
I head
out just as she leads
the old
perv into the ladies
Room.
cold sore poetry.
ReplyDeletethanks for that poem and also for the intro - such a strong quote, buddy.
Yes, it takes balls. Bravo for writing something that actually makes sense. The problem I have with most modern poetry is the overly abstract nature of it, often so abstract that only the writer can understand and appreciate it. Go onto any major literary magazine's website and you'll find award-winning poems about chipmunks with wedding rings around their necks in a cemetery. I'm not even making that one up. That was published by The Paris Review.
ReplyDeleteKeep up the good work, Keith.