Poem 2/22/16

tripsy traipsy
it’s difficult when they all love one another
and there’s hardly anyone getting murdered
(which isn’t of course often the problem)
to write deepdark poetry or oh my goodness
this society is in need of this poetry
tripsy traipsy
however beautiful many of them are
and of course many of them are beautiful
(even the brutes, my dears, even the brutes)
at least beautiful enough to inspire some verses
about how you can find beauty anywhere my loves
tripsy traipsy
some are rapists and beat our weakest
big men beat and big women beat
(big being small and small sometimes jerks too)
of course that’s only some small big huge percent
a few too too too too too too too too too many
tripsy traipsy
but only a few, reducing us, we poets we
to flowers and optimism and not being murdered
(i lump myself with them because i need to eat)
and what’s it like growing old for the young
and what’s it like dying for the old
tripsy traipsy
or sex of course there’s room room room for sex
and questions which we all have don’t we?
(my first question is why and second is why not?)
and then after that it’s mostly slices of life
which the best turn operatic but me not so much
tripsy traipsy
no here it’s war and death and God and whatever
i’d rather avoid subtlety and nuance
(not that war and death etc. have none)
my fingers are tempted to type ‘ha ha’ at the end of each line
which they don’t for fear of alienation
tripsy traipsy
i’ve read so many great poems, maybe thousands
and i can get inbetween the cracks of a few
(like a mold, perhaps, if that’s not too cruel)
but writing something new, or to compete?
I think I’d rather write this
tripsy traipsy