Response to Strange Comparisons*

[heslopian]

I'm not my friend Nathan,
I don't care about rape
and cannibalism,
except as abstract metaphors;
whereas he craves shock, disgust,
and seeks to banish all nuance,
I hide my own madness behind
an English reticence...
he is a Chicago crime scene,
filled with hookers in dumpsters,
crying children and
bloody stockings;
I, however, am an old chintz kettle,
filled with stone cold, dense black tea,
emitting a stench from my spout.

I don't know enough about politics
to be "the new Allen Ginsberg,"
and when people compare me
to Charles Bukowski
I wonder if they know my name;
I don't drink, desire women,
have never worked a menial job,
lived in a motel
or been the tough guy...

(Why can't we admire artists
without subscribing
to their lives?)

I'm simply a manic depressive kid
without a great deal of technique.

*The poem above is an extended edit. Below is the original piece, published before Billy's comment.

I'm not my friend Nathan,
I don't care about rape
and cannibalism,
except as abstract metaphors;
I don't know enough about politics
to be "the new Allen Ginsberg,"
and when people compare me
to Charles Bukowski
I wonder if they know my name;
I don't drink, desire women,
have never worked a menial job,
lived in a motel
or been the tough guy...

(Why can't we admire artists
without subscribing
to their lives?)

I'm simply a manic depressive kid
without a great deal of technique.