Punk Art

 

They talk about the poet’s misbehaviour or improper manner
                                            of talking
in the family
they shed tears at the poet’s insults
they cry and make plans—
to return
                                            at the poet, and yes at poetry
            itself.
they laugh at his feelings, they make huzza
at the tone, the claims, the plea
"tantrums, childish"

sometimes they listen.
but only to form answers
that should topple and silence
                            the plea
for love

the poet tears his wall’s favourite posters, bangs his head
            on his radio
cracks the mirror in the heat of isolation
in revolt at the coldness of a lost summer in
            tropical rain days, in the
            season that does not know what to do next. . . .
for life, for security,
            for a wife, a house and life insurance

it seems a poet will remain
a child forever
            unrealistic
            knowing nothing about the ways of the game
the need for power
the need for finance
            the urgency of knowing people—to know them, to know
            you

or seems a poet will remain
a child forever,
            dead to what cooks in the bourgeois pot
            to what thickens the bricks in American-style walls
            to what collects in the new car
seems he will never see what his father wants had always
            wanted, wanting still,
            what his mother prayed still prays
for. mothers pray
poets get their senses.

they talk about the poet’s misbehaviour—a trivia:
            "tingnan mo siyang magsalita (look at him talk)," they
            say
"oh how cute."

they won’t believe a college boy
            who should now be planning for independence,
            for wealth, a permanent job somewhere
says words like these
they answer the poet with what’s proper for him
            "you don’t dare go against what makes
you eat."

and the poet can’t believe they’re not taking him
seriously,
seriously!
till he either cuts his wrist or cuts others’ throat
            to convince himself he’ll take himself seriously
            as nothing to be laughed at
in a life he can’t like nor planned liking
he didn’ ask for anything

the poet, he whispers, cannot be laughed at
he must either throw up the necessity of structures in the
            style necessary and fitting
for his time, or play bad politics, so
            give the time what it asks for,
            sock it to him, gringo
            make that eat his own cock-eyed phallus
make the lady drink her own pee now,
            till she sees how color is when color is,
                                            but easy.

ok, easy, but let go of the grace and reason of poems
let go o’ those song and rime,
call the ambulance the firetrucks
this’ll be poetry

of the crazy,
of the unmannered . . .
the ungroomed—
cuts others’ throat, ends up cutting his own wrists anyway,
history after calling him a bad example, setting
            his poetry on fire.

 

 

 

Copyright © 1999, 2004 Vicente-Ignacio Soria de Veyra. All rights reserved. Readers are welcome to view, save, file and print out single copies of this webpage for their personal use. No reproduction, display, performance, multiple copy, transmission, or distribution of the work herein, or any excerpt, adaptation, abridgment or translation of same, may be made without written permission from the author. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this work will be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

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