Upon Reading James Merrill and Too Many Others

They go about their business, these creative writers,
Piling up words like two-bit trinkets, knee deep,
Leaden, not much gold, and they push them
Forward at a plod. I yawn. “That's nice,” I
Think to say, but I was raised on rock and roll,
And Shakespeare, baby. I'll be damned if
I can sit, impassive, as they inch and ache.
I want the beat. I close the book, let down
Again. If this is art, I'll get off here, and hie
Myself into a bar which has a stage and signs
Of life, then, drunk on beer and howled
Aggression, stagger home to write.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 30 times
Written on 2013-11-01 at 23:25

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