We demand your puke

Poets at a table possess a moment
each a sore as blistered as herpes or ebola,
a special psychosis in each, but all are bloody
from the tireless surviving of bullshit trying to
pass itself off as authentic living,

odd strange fellows letting the rotted edges of
the plastic cow society saw our bones until our
spirits are armless amputees staring at you with
insult and helpless defiance to the stick-n-seal world
some would have us live without breathing,

that’s why you feel uncomfortable when you
read our words or thoughts.

who thought it would come to this—x-ray thinking
and vermeil moral chains that leave even the best
dressed tarnished, lackluster and benign,
senseless to the issues of caring with intention the
best that can be done,

so, a table of poets bleeding on each other
to get your attention—making you ask the hard
questions or at least pretend to—for pussy sake,

we are a sore, one and all,
pustules waiting to explode in your science fiction
horror movie, demanding more than simple antibiotics,
we want your deep down thinking—we demand your
puke!


J. Masuda © 2005

art
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