Friday, 4 April 2014
Poetry needs some guts.
Tripe and gizzards
trailing from a gash in the belly.
A slash of red blood in the dawn
of a newly minted honeymoon.
A stamp on the head of the golden
tresses and fairy tales and myths
updated for creative writing competitions.
It needs mustard.
A hefty kick up the pants of the new Byron
with his middle aged groupies
on courses and retreats in country houses.
Let's stop the surface shine of clever verbosity.
Dynamite the dull face of cold
abstraction. Dig for the hard core
of life. Be passionate and bold.
Posted by kate leader at 23:31