Dead poets sing louder than the trumpet that is pulled through Lady Day’s breasts, as she awaits one of two fates: Her arrest or her death. Living poets are a lie; a poor joke in a shit black comedy. Life is too “_____” to ever be able to put it into words, music, or images. That is why death is so poetic. Like art, we don’t even know if death is real, or if it even makes sense. So fuck me, and stop wasting your time; then, when i die, enjoy this poet’s song, and tell your friends how you made “_____” of it.
I am color right now.
I am ink.
I am a sequence of notes, passing through you and getting stuck in your head, so much so that you hate it.
I know this to be true, for you are stuck in mine.
Fucking Looney Tunes!
Not a Poet!
Not a Singer!
Not an Artist!
Not a Person of Significance! (debatable by you of course).
Just Looney Tunes.
Catchy, somber Looney Tunes.
That is both what I make, and what the collective “we”, of whom I refer to as “I” are.
We (I) are (am),