Poets of Delicate Angst

yes, it's a rant I'm afraid ...


In your pause, pace, pedantic phrase -

where is the passion,
the rage against rage
or procrastination?
The clever use of space
in its dance across the page,
paper cut of rapier riposte.
Take a sledgehammer and pound
the blue into finger grooves,
forget the clever prance in prose
and shout in my face.
Forget your sensitive, new-age pose
among the pansies along the fence,
pick a side,
even the wrong side.
Lose your decadent American drawl,
in your haste to compel me,
propel me into tangled unutterable scrawl.
I want more than your heart
in wallpaper bouquets -
I want your foetus,
your unformed, bloody mass
of inspiration.