by Darren Colbourne
Writing poetry’s a dirty art;
A masturbatory salute to a misplaced lust,
Strokes of a pen that radiate
A curious but familiar mixture:
Shame, pleasure, and a tinge of despair.
We binge on the cheap junk offerings of life
And purge ourselves back onto the page,
Hoping that whatever comes up will
Help the world go down smoother next time around.
Libraries are just choked trash heaps
Where the evidence is discreetly disposed of
And I often find myself rummaging through,
Looking at the refuse of glorious misfits,
Losers, dreamers, radicals, and loners,
Hoping to find a stained and well-worn lesson