I have to go to bed tonight.
I have to write this poem early.
This guarantees that what I write
Will turn out a little squirrelly.
Medieval troubadours composed
As if life on love depended,
Then hip-hop rappers decomposed
How love out of lust descended,
But tidy romantic poets,
Belated and educated,
Determined to make death show its
Love of them that death created,
When nothing’s worth recreating
From the gods’ eternal log roll.
Oh fuck, how humiliating
To bog down in this doggerel.
Rhyme faster poetaster, chime,
You geezer. Every antique phrase
Finds it’s embarrassing to climb
The pasts that shadow freak todays.
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