No Poets

No more dead bodies for Daddy tonight.
He's seen his fair share, and is nothing
but ready for bed. No more chests filled

with heavy lead, no more heads crammed with flippant thoughts.

'Cos our existence
is a haunted one -- and baby?
We've been exorcising.

No gods decapitalized or vegan dishes mispronounced,

snapshots are all we've got --
so why isn't that enough?
They may be more fun than the fun

to be had while you're wild singular and swigging

and swinging about that blade.
This is the sound of progress.
This is not the sound of successful

progress. No poets renting sheds in the backyard,

made of foil and lightning bolts.
No poets beating lovers with found
objects until they bleed: a way out.

No poets are needed, and for that we are very very sorry.