You have to knife a man to steal his heart.
Once it’s stolen if you can
Sleep at night
(And many, mind you, do not stir a muscle)
You know that you have done it right.
Your moment comes, stares you
In the face. Smiles. Twitches.
And then it slides out past. You got to make up
And make what you believe in count; though what you believe in as such,
Will slide; and fast.
Take the spanner and the knife,
Depend on their hold,
Let her close her eyes
Before your desires unfold.
Make poetry not panting. They’re both quite the same.
Same — cos, in words we find the
Luxury of deception. We lie to ourselves
Lying to others, trying to convince ourself
That to be stunted is cool. Decency, fucking
Moral code. When you’re deprived of love…just write an ode.
Fight, man — kill a thousand as you die.
On your self-penned blacklists of
Empty wo/men try to shut. Your eye:
Dream and meditate on those that you want dead.
That is the way in which all worth poetry’s read.