I found this one in my drafts.
Fuck it. It’s old, irrelevant, and not very good.
But I’m posting it anyway.
I realised today that my attack on Ivor yesterday was not the first instance of such wickedness. I stumbled across another such reported incident of over a year ago, and I publish it again here by way of confession, particularly as I seem to be under fire this morning over matters of questionable morals …. and this is something of a low water mark.
I admire poets. I read a bit of poetry here and there from people who seem to know what they are doing. I can’t claim to understand all of it and it’s hard, sometimes, for me to tell the difference between the poetry which goes way over my head and the poetry that just doesn’t make sense. I was never good at poetry during school. But that goes for a lot of things …. Most of all, though, I admire poets for their bravery. The very best poems come from poets who are willing to hang their emotions out for everyone to see. Now, I don’t really know how to write poetry, but even if I did I just don’t think that I’m capable of such bravery. I prefer to hide my emotions behind a sort of slap-stick carnality. I read a poem from Ivor, here. I’m sure a lot of you are familiar with Ivor’s body of work and the deep well of emotion that he draws from. I was inspired by this one sufficiently to create an alternative version – not as any sort of competition but rather to indicate that I keep my own well of emotion tightly sealed, and that’s why, perhaps, I will never be called a poet ….
I’m hot for you, baby …burning red
Want to rip off all your clothes
And throw you on the bed
You’re glowing like a beacon
And I’m seekin’ your heat
Going to lick you all over
Starting at your feet
Your love is like an ember
I remember, how you scream
I want to jump into your fire
My desire. So obscene
Am I infected by a virus?
Is it something I can catch?
I want to keep that fire smokin’
Keep it stokin’. Light your match.