In this world, the poets are not welcome. (British spelling)
The best songs have backup singers! Harmonies penetrate like x-rays, imprinting silhouettes of a tribal soul on the red brick walls of suburbia.
If my soul didn't exist, I'd invent one. Like a briefcase, I need somewhere to put my shit.
I feel, therefore I am! The rest, touch, sight, smell, noise, all are subjective and transitory. Atoms to atoms, energy to energy, time is Einstein's fallacy, depth is for horny college posers. Great widths are the nemesis of suicidal horizontalists. Crash the red brick wall in praise of acceleration, for only the slow will suffer.
Egotistic and pretentious, the poet can't normalize; he must exhume the ignorant from their happy slumber. He cannot be content until they're miserable and infected. He shows them reality, but they change the channel. Reality, he's told, cannot be achieved without cameras and careful editing. A poet's disease is too repugnant for prime time. "You are oblivious," he screams, "immersed in candy and orgasms."
A monkey will swallow anything, but it has no taste.
The old man skips Statistics class to pray to the lottery gods in a handicap washroom stall. His security and retirement lie in the hands of the Ministry of Benevolence and Pity. His life will end as empty as the public purse, his hands tarnished like the worthless pennies he saves in a Pringles can.
The neighbour builds a fence, blocking the sun and killing my carrots. My instructions to the lawyers are clear and concise - they repel from the black helicopters at midnight and neutralize the target. In the alley, I await the new owners with welcome baskets and a ham. If they're of the faith, we can carpool on Sundays.
Pissing against the red brick wall, I silently pray for the Cavalry. It rides unarmed on the crippled legs of utopian promises. It will arrive to watch my burial, just in time to place flowers and an iPad on my virtual grave. A soldier with a bugle plays Floyd, empty and hollow without backup singers.