It seems to me that the artist’s struggle
For his integrity
Is a kind of metaphor
Must be considered as a metaphor
For the struggle, which is universal and daily
Of all human beings on the face of this terrifying globe
To get to become human beings
It is not your fault, it is not my fault, that I write
I would never come before you
In the position of a complainant (complainant)
For doing something that I must do (that I must do)
I must do
Ghiath Matar is dead
Roses are not armour
In my neighbourhood, it was become a poet or a farmer
Welcome back avatar, Mevlevi whirling while I’m boiling a pacifier
Hold thyself like J’zargo in Winterhold
Reality, I’m in Fargo reading dinner poems
Wincing at the virtue signaling
Jejune is Dirk Diggler staring at the ceiling post-coitus
Swerving through moral detours most boistrous
Black beans and deco spilt on my loafers
I’m back on my Black Bukowski b#llsh#t
f#ck your notepad, wrote a poem with a toolkit
Shocking moment as the pupil thought
Me and my n#gg#s is a school of thought
Shocking moment as the pupil thought
Me and my n#gg#s is a school of thought
I wanna suggest that the poets
Are finally the only people who know the truth about us
Soldiers don’t, statesmen don’t, priests don’t, union leaders don’t
Only the poets, that’s my first proposition
The second proposition
Is what I really want to get at tonight
And it sounds mystical
I think in a country like ours, in a time like this
When something awful is happening to a civilization
When it ceases to produce poets
And what is even more crucial
When it ceases in any way whatever to believe in the report
That only poets can make
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