#Philosophistication & #PrinceViews

Heartbeats confused by caffeine,
Suicidal matters taken into my own hands:
Silted index fingertip with
tin for wrist practice,
Ballistic flinch,
Bandaged with a TEDx talk,
Too egotistic for an outcry,
Self-taught to grin charmingly
through social crowds with insufficient empathy;
Subconsciously untaught how love
needles on wounds so I caress carelessly,
Carefully giving a well-wished kiss
on lady’s cheek with her tolerance,
Leaving not a hickey,
but long-term intentions.
Drunk on rum and bum,
I romanticized what agonized,
with poetic lines,
Medicated and meditated,
Looking to publicise,
maybe televise and vent out poetically
But hear…

Dogmatic notions sprinkled on open-mics,
Poetry forked up to word-playing demise
And whatever is trending;
Gradually institutionalized art;
Automatically incorporated
And sustained by brainy metaphors;
Publicly sugar-coated with pocket honey
and promised career betterment;
Introspectively causing poets to retire their pens,
Because they’ll never be as good as seemingly-systematically should be.

Explosive verbal tyranny, holy
texts in poetic summaries, dead
between stanzas, resurrected as
the reader is to criticize, ego resized,
poets are mice, trapped and in search
for that slice of the moon, soon
to face ego doom, bloom the flowers,
maybe the critique might rejoice
and emit less noise about such
a rose in a poem. Then modernize
the sweet lies; stay drunk on notions,
spew loiterings of commotion with no
emotion, then boom you’re less
Shakespearean, the Eden amphibian,
the ranting militant serpent, be more
Saxon, you useless prose matron,
you’re not worth the words, write
more like Wordsworth, use Blake’s pen,
you black swan, less invested in
your craft, use a draft, a body,
then conclude with an anapestic punch,
it’s all a meal, a lunch, with
in-depth metaphors on the side,
where idiocy metamorphs into idioms,
avoid roaming around form, poetry
is a leveled slope; don’t grapple with form…

Poetry is anarchy; a riddled utopia
of fallacies, filled with mercenaries
messaging and messing words till
aging manifests and pages
get stained with coffee grains,
it’s a game of chess where pieces are
knocked off the board, then you
perish of ache, writer’s block
and locked in a reader’s cage.
Who’s the sage?

By Prince Views & Eugene ‘Philosophisticater’

Artwork by Tomasz Alen Kopera

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