I am at a crossroads, somewhat in turmoil,
Over what path righteous poetry must tread.
The preacherman says the old way,
The dribble and spitpools on the corners
Of his sophist mouth say it is the only way.
The beats, astray, renegades with smoky faces
And dark bats under yellow red-veined eyes,
To music hark the new way,
The way of the fastlane highway,
An orange flaming pile-up.
I've made up my mind to not make it up.
To not be stuck like the sabretooth
Soothed by the tarpit.
No comments:
Post a Comment