This poem, as good as I’ve ever written,
Is not for everyone. You, for instance,
Reputed for—well, some call it poetry—
Are jealous, even afraid of me,
So you won’t read it, because if you do,
You will feel inadequate and depressed.
This poem, then, is obviously not for you.
This poem, in fact, is not for any of those
Who pass off those half-rhymes, and that shuffling prose,
As poetry, lecturing in mawkish imagery, oh shit,
Not for that mediocre tribe is this poem it.
They may receive praise from their unctuous friends;
However, in this poem, their fake reputation ends,
As they are forced to read
An actual poem, not some social need.
“Read my poem!” they insanely cry,
When they, themselves, don’t have an ear, or an eye.
Wave after wave of precious worlds,
The silver blinking of the elite stars,
Crawl past, just visible, so they might see,
The point. The fact. The gnawing mystery.
You should know this poem isn’t for
Heroic reasons for bravery and war.
There are none. It’s the same as when music is good;
It’s precisely because pleasure—
And pleasure’s all the same—can’t be understood.
Attempt to put words to pleasure, and you will show
What the smiling, silent, satisfied know
About poetry—its technique
Is the thing—it’s never what you speak.
Content is crazy, and method is even more mysterious, still;
But if you want me to explain the content, I will.
Because what else can I do?
This poem is not for everyone. Not even you.
And this is what this poem is about.
I loved you. You hurt me. So get out.
Who is this poem for? A tiny audience.
A bragging insult will make your audience small
Is the focus of this poem, and that’s all.
If the poem is successful, I’ll be alone. I can relax, and grieve.
Are you still here? I thought I told you to leave.