Deep joy

part of the deep joy of being a poet
is that nobody thinks it of you
somehow
you are supposed to be fey
a thin white trembling waif with a copy
of spensers faerie queen under a wasting arm
waiting to be killed at Verdun
or moldering in a rotten alcoholic stinking den
living in piss dreamed beds where the squalor
validates all grease penned thoughts
as whores rifle through pockets searching
for pennies, drabs of dope, opium or worse
while you slumber in another pipe dream
we are the shadow people where others
insist their dreams upon us or we perish
in their thin eyes at judgement of our work
take my words is all I ask of your time
but please
save the romantic demise
the starving meme
consumption
fading alcoholic frenzy
for another more deserving
of a trite death
I got stuff to do yet

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