Contributor: Roger Brightley

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Maybe it’s poetic to think poetry is in the blood,
that when you shackle the man by his wrists,
nailing his breadth, stretched along a wall of pride
and take the blade of anguish to his torso
to tear through his demeanour and unleash a riptide of emotions —
Poetry gushes from his blood song.

Maybe it’s poetic to think poetry is in the blood —
Poison his blood:
Hear him cry, hear him moan, hear him curse, hear him in pain,
hear him, O People of the World, hear in the silence and in godforsaken prayer;
O Existential Pain, you have turned a layman into a poet
You have put intoxication in his hand to dull his thinking mind
and like an enema, flushed out frustrations so bitter and Bukowski;
This severe stating as is, this guttural structure of bile.
O Existential Pain, you have made man immortal
In your irony — immortally mortal.

Maybe it’s poetic to think poetry is in the blood,
Then let me break this glass to forehead
to write words alliterative and simple
in the red destruction of nature and nurture:
These are the walls I claw with useless fingers
These are the floors I crawl in search for hopeless mercy,
These are the people I strangle with my fucking tendons
Break my heart strings, shatter my ribs
I am a disingenuous danger — an animal in me awakens
thrashing, clashing, smashing, gnashing horror.

Maybe it’s poetic to think poetry is in the blood —
So make him bleed.
And then, call him: Poet.


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Human. Writer. Poet. Crazy Banana.