last nite i w as feel in gsa d

so i texted a great poet

i said:

dear goD

do you think, if
i haven’t really suffered


i’ve lived a spoiled
and                          TOTALLY

pampered life

is there still a chance that sometimes
at least

i could still write good poetry?

and hE said no.

No my child
as with anything in lifE

there are prerequisites :

like two heads in the oven
or a noose hanging
off a wooden beam

a chair kicked over into the corner of a room
those are the ideal
asia weevils

you need those

but who would want those my child

wouldn’t you just want to be dr williams
dead of a recurring stroke
that pushed his weelchair
into a bush
of crimson cyclamen

he, pushed over

leave dying alone
at a stinking hospital bed at tangiers
both yer legs cut off at the knees

leave greatness
to the real Gods

to the Rimbauds of the world
to the Rambos of the world

remember how in First Blood Part Un
he had to chisel a bullet
out of his arm
with a hunting knife?

you want that?

no you dont
believe mE

you wouldnt want that kind of lifE
greatness is overrated
believe mE

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