Nor are they clean enough for me:
                                        they all muddy their waters to make them appear deep.
                                                  —Nietzsche¹

                    To those who refuse to accept what is permitted
                                        and seek the unknown—

                                        i.

Give me a poet who writes
with his balls, like Baudelaire
or Bukowski, a rowdy
provocateur ignoring

warnings against being so
abhorrent, shouting over
an uni(n)formed voice whining,
‘You’re not breaking any laws,

you’re only contravening
convention,’ a threat ready
to pervert our depictions
of decency, a wreck whose

torn sheets make uneasy a
lonely generation’s drones
crying for recognition,
for more trophies for having

diagnosed themselves as poor
victims of “awkwardness” and
the “anxiety” burned deep
into them by the backlit

handhelds tapping into them
their lives’ insignificance,
resurrect for my sake a
dæmon to make unsafe those

                                        ii.

spaces where they congregate
to create allegations
of rape and paint with rainbows
of feigned strength the blankness of

their manufactured faces,
you who witness the results
of your wit’s swiftness and your
desirability, say

my name that I might live on
forever, make of our shared
memories an infamy
whose legacy saunters like

unwanted and ill-won fame
unimpeded & shamelessly
through the thick mire of fading
celebrity’s dark valley,

beyond the shadow of your
vanity raise a middle
finger to poke at the styed
lazy eyes of our feckless

perception and bare raw its
deceptive deficit of
introspection, vandalize
the horizon with scandal

                                        iii.

for the sake of your fellow
degenerates who take from
war such generous chances,
scatter the pavement with scars

of tears that descend past the
stares of crowds into turbid
pools of shadows, chant out loud
pronouncements against the dull,

vacuous inhabitants
of this soul-sucking planet,
leave me disconcerted, still
singing in my chains after

the captives of my torture’s
audience have deserted
the flames igniting my moth-
balled stage, please, don’t encourage

them, order them to perform
as an experiment that
anal sex your herd rehearsed
behind the whipped backs of an

intolerant government
whose more intolerable
revolving door policy
bred out of better men their

                                        iv.

masculinity, enact
for unwelcome peasantry
an edict to deflower
their cowardly minds’ virgin

territory of its brains’
implanted naïveté
with riotous & audacious
insults of sodomy, to

establish from within an
unsettlement of values,
deaccessioning from the
tomb/museum churching the

fugue masses fake nooses and
anachronous illusions
of democracy, after
rebranding their unsexing

as something fresh resembling
pornography but much less
damaged, unpen for me a
sacrilege of obscene lines,

a pantomiming gleam of
pandæmonium scorching
into the blackballed heads of
them fever among the blind.

__________
¹Friedrich Nietzsche, “On Poets”, Speech 17 from “Zarathustra’s Speeches” in the Second Part of Thus Spoke Zarathustra: A Book for All and None: Translated and with a Preface by Walter Kaufmann, published at New York by The Modern Library in 1995; page 128.