July Poetry, Day 16 – Outlaw Poetry (S A Griffin)

Posted: July 16, 2012 in photography, poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Today, true words from SA Griffin about all of the posers masquerading as writers and poets not by putting interesting thoughts to paper but by wearing the right clothes, or writing in the “right” coffee-house or quoting the right people.  For those who may not get it the reference to HST is the one-and-only Hunter S. Thompson.  ~ ZD Blue

Dr. Megavolt photo by Z Deacon Blue

Confessions of a door to door autographed outlaw bible salesman

By S.A. Griffin

http://outlawpoetry.com/2007/12/05/sa-griffin-confessions-of-a-door-to-door-autographed-outlaw-bible-salesman/

 

guns, knives, speed, weed, bald ass lies,
fast cars, dice, junk, mad sex, porn and drunken orgies
will never make anyone an honest outlaw
however, any or all might bring on a sad liver,
a failed kidney, an exploding ticker, rusty veins, no credit,
a flipped wig, a bitter ex and/or a
same sex love affair with the law

most of what is sacred in our
bastard world of
poetry and small press
is not and never was

cool

a cultural malignancy
and artistic anomaly of
puking conformity

there are giddy exceptions tho
generally predicated upon single expression
or vision and nothing else

what makes cool is the
same thing that
might make hip

it just is

like levy of Cleveland
simply who and what they are
outside the margins and maverick
by necessity

whose only victory might be to declare
what would be their genius

all those that follow with their nostrils flaring up their
false gods fetid asses in search of lost cities
are foolish fashion mongers pressing themselves into
unforgiving clichés

I cannot remember where
HST or Bukowski ever
wrote or said, this is the way

mostly what they said if anything
was straight ahead, this is my way
like Anais inside the
top down of her soft parade

the mystery and magic of the grape
will not make you a writer
posing in black ether with your hands
jammed into your pockets
leaning against bearded time
will not make you a poet

like most everyone else
in this changing city I am a sincere liar
guilty of some small
crimes of fashion

this is one of them

a low rider on the apocalypse
haunted by long haired dreams of being
born again as a rock star

honestly, I don’t know what
makes a poet, but they
are among us

a little outlaw dancing
in every one

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