A new poem by Jordan Hamel.
Real Poet
| Every word earned its place and so did he, so should you. Real poet lives in the capital but writes himself into the Mackenzie country golden hour, man of the paper land, he neglects to mention his pollen allergy. Real poet holds his hardcover like a shield and the mic like a soiled tissue. Real poet unhinges his jaw and swallows his muses. Real poet is a learned python. Real poet wants only the company of reptiles, no feathers of flight or fancy. Real poet has mason jars hungry for his organs; he pickles himself for future literary scholarship. Real poet has been more brine than bard since 2002, but still releases biennial collections. Real poet found me in the independent bookstore jacking off to Milk & Honey. He called the poetry police but then I jacked them off too. I offered to relieve real poet; I told him we could finish together. He died from shock. Now poetry is without surveillance, and the sick, little freaks are galloping through the halls of knowledge. They are thriving. I am thriving. I am thriving. I am. I am so bored. Even rats need a snake to hide from. The Literary Joker needs his Literary Batman. The Literary Joker needs someone to make him think twice about using monikers like ‘The Literary Joker’. Real poet without you, what am I? Maybe, you’re right. Maybe I make it all about me me me me. Maybe, just once, I want someone to call me ‘urgent and necessary’ and not because they’re in kidney failure and I’m a perfect match. Maybe I’m scared our words die with us. Maybe the gate needs to be kept but where’s my gate huh, where’s my gate, where’s my… sorry, the MC is making threatening gestures at me, that’s my time, you’ve been a great audience. |
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The Friday Poem is edited by Hera Lindsay Bird. Submissions are currently closed.