But Not There

look here
and there just once
protect your back
you will lose time
stand beside and lay flowers
don't huddle inside
and speak aside
gather yourself from left
sit wherever you want
but not there

here and there
ahead and in doors
it hurts and stings with the key of words
in silence between think
run under words
do not fear the windowsill birds
be tough as nails
speak wherever you want
but not there

Sex, poetry and rock'n'roll

Writing poems for and about your mistresses, loved ones or lovers is a cheap way to pick a girl up and a trashy gimmicky.
Love poems are full of falsity, idealism and childishness. They sound as if you were forever repeating how much red is a rose. It'd be better to actually buy the flower or a drink for your babe, throwing hollah dollah bills at the bartender. It'd be more verbatim and rewarded, when for a poem all you could get is a smile and an innuendo from your lover that: "Get lost honey! You are not a man, but a sissy!"
The same goes for any holidays, anniversaries, tragedies, birthdays, political and social affairs. A poem about Easter, e.g., or the Japanese earthquake sounds like a bird that got hit in the throat. Cheap rhymes are not better. Fucking is good, but not in the poetry. not word for word.
Wouldn't it be better if, having your own style and abilities, to keep up to your own level and not to get down and reach for those cheap procedures to:

a) get the attention of people who like the low-art,
b) scare off those who search for something more in poetry?

I think it'd be better to be a Jimi Hendrix, to bristle the soul and make your readers ecstatic, bringing something new and magnetic into poetry, than to be like a soft wind with no attention caught, like Rick Astley with his sterile, barren and infertile songs that make you want to vomit.

What a Mess

I return after a hard night
just to leave before dawn
I've been waiting
till you make a move
or just tremble
a little
but you just nothing
not submissively giddinessed
lead up the garden path

I was
on the summer day
day is excessive
in its excessiveness
so I blink
into too long dawning sun
tatooed on the sheet
of your right eye
as well as the left one

what a mess
what a mess
and no intentions
to be nor to drink