write as you like
Yes, the great ones, the good ones,
the distinguished poets,
who wait with exposed fangs
the perennial friendship of cicadas
who sing from Radar or from Viva,
the rude tip of the mayeutica,
who do not profess the vintage of the poem
but its Reserved Rights,
who are undone in the flattery of dead poets and wear helmets but knowing
in advance that the giants do not
they exist and that they are just windmills.
Yes, they, the eternal pedigree contenders
of the Festivals where the
bestial glasses of wine and where no one
is more divine than the Host with
big house.
They advise you, vehemently
and bromatology
place a tutor for the tree of poetry
so that the leaves grow straight
so that each adjective occupies its rightful place
a tutor so that the poem is neat
sits upright at the table
and eat the cold dinner of circumspect grammar.
But if you ask me
that I take out the snot and make them balls
to me
that I feel a visceral disgust for the
etiquette and tailcoat
I tell you:
Don't correct a horn
Write with bile and with the flow of
days and the urgent sperm whale sperm of the
soul.
Write how you want
because life runs and can not wait
find a suitable name for it
call it life
dog call her
poem boat intercourse buddha call her
but without tutors
that life and the poem grow naturally
like love
like tuna
Like the moon.