reckon it is time
for a new poem.
not some l o n g w i n d e d agony aunt
expostulation concerning lost loves.
nor any political scything.
about iwi demise
through the flaccid field of ignorance.
koha the world something instead -
to harass their heads
for years to come;
some sharp barbed verse
that screws your eyes up every time you scan it,
that bites you hard in the bum
every time you search for succour.
forget the tropes, the tripe,
the silly pedantry about ‘how’ to write a poem
that some zombie prattle & preach.
concentrate on the pulse beat, the blood spurt,
the sheer evisceration
as some fishhook line disinters you
years before your grave.
& gush your epiphany:
‘fuck, that’s what a poem must do’,
as you then kiss your lover full on the lips -
meaning it this time.