Grunt

The poets of despair—rarified, dignified, resigned, gorgeous with the shimmering phosphorescence of rot—are sadder and wiser than I.

But I, too, can consider the horizon a blade, stagger beneath the cruelty of spring, molder graveside in elegaic black.

But mostly I say screw it. I say screw it to no-one in particular and revel in my unpoeticness, a middle-aged porcine philosopher grunting in the mud of bad poetry.

I write gleeful bad rhymes. I bed men and bear children who will die. I lie on my back in the earthly ooze and surrender, grinning, to reality—pleased as a village idiot at the warmth of the sun on my loosening thighs.