Pleasure and Pain Will be Kings in Your City
by Jo Skelt
No ancient city state
can banish the poet
from its gates
-even a rhyming one
for he is full of too much life
to spend it
propped up in phosphorescent bars
drugged up
exploiting metaphors and
chocolate-coated revolutions
the poet lives
do not be deceived
by those who desecrate
exude expression
before emotion of meaning
seek out words to terrorise
the poet lives for the millions
who have died
for the endless equations
that never add up
to anything
for the streams of people he will never meet
for those he will and doesn't want to know
those he loves - and thought he loved
and when sickness comes
and you despair
the poet struggles to investigate
and comprehend his frailty
and this impossibility
and as you - the silent - yearn
he yearns with you
yes, the poet is full of life
but with so much life
he suffocates
dares to burn
and drown, screams
and then re-surfaces
to relay his journeys
the poet lives for the courageous
and the lost ones
who bear their emotional contortions
for the people who will die
with their names crossed out
on banners
paraded like cattle
in trucks
for the women who wear
thistles on their kimonos
and over bottles and bottles
of red wine
words re-arrange themselves
and he prays for the city he can live in
but which he doesn't want to die in
you see, the poet cannot die
while there are Buddhist boot-boys
students who refuse to learn
and endless railway terminals
men and women
who celebrate in times of war
and protest in times of peace
children who dress up
and choose their favourite colours
then change their minds
but he is never decent of healthy
so no wonder he stands up
for the snakes, lizards and
nocturnal wanderers
who also get a bad press
for all the people who discount
their degrees and careers
for the man who invented blue poppies
and almond essence
for the fact that there are so many worlds
and if you seek hard enough you will find
and, of course, for the touches, traumas
and enchantments of love
without which there would be
no Valentine's Day
and without love
there would be no poetry
and only then would the poet die.
