a poem by Dale Costello, Australia - poetry writer, author, poet

I wont write
formula music for the detached
detailed asides
for a lecturers fine toothed comb
I think its better to write
than to be read
when your first thought at night
and your last morning in the thought
is aiding and abetting
the transients long road home.

I wont write
something sounding deaf and prolific
and I wouldn’t read it anyway
Chopper grinning with the trade
wiping his old arse with your rhetoric
bagging some tailors with a rhyme
me and Tom Waits are doin time
only his cell is bigger
and the audience has a larger- cause
fatal, direct, impolite excuses for structure
guard the manner of our contempt.

I wont write
from that scared distance of correspondence
to a lover I knew yet no longer do
articulate verses etched in strangers
tattooed in items from a Chinese menu
thinking bout prophesy, spouting fried rice
that ninety nine percentile corrupted by vice
telling us its okay to feel
within a medium made of cast iron shadow
its even permitted to finally kneel
at the last thing you would have written
on a tissue and given to the wind.

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Dale Costello