WHY I DON'T LIKE POETS
they are too privileged & always
calibrate death with posies & nosegays
unweeping effusions, owl tables
sour milk in dishonest kitchens, misremembered
sunlight, harp strings, flat rib
notes; all drink til the liver creases & craves
SILENCE -- then it hurts & nothing's true
& they've rehearsed that buddhist breath-cloth
tinkling bells the light
that won't behave; the sea, they speak
of that, think they belong, thin feet
too late, amen & shut your mouth for god's sake
one pure crystal instant, then rush
if you must, to your black notebook, record
the nosebleeds & the rusty gold; poetry is
impolite, too much has been said
too many chastened voices...
Iain Sinclair
printed in PHAROS Volume 4 No.1 winter 1998
published by The British Institute, Paris.
P.Riley, copied.
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