I knew as soon as I began that nothing

ever needed to be said has been said in a poem

 

Yet greater writers write the poetry of love

with the pugnacity of Hemingway

and another empty cup slammed to the counter

and another right hook to the already bloodied visage

of the maudlin lyricist trapped in the shadows of

heroic ambition

 

Who cower unshaven in dark corners

with heads hanging and hearts desperate

for the pain they need but cannot endure

so when the opium den calls with the promise

of divine intervention poetic invention

they hide in unplastered bedrooms

devoid of meaning in an ambivalent declare

attending weddings and funerals to still never weep

 

And I too sit here with the images of Baudelaire

and the frail Paris air

choking through clouds of smoke

with sweet whispers of tender compassion

recited in numbed audacity

The arrogance of youth so obsessed with image

with a flicker of the cigarette and another shot of whiskey

for death is poetry enough

 

All this will do for the title of great poet

And I too will write this to legitimise my drinking habits

 

Katie Salomon