Gel Poem

i stare white-blind, (my visor is no help)
into the white-hot heart of the glowing
screen, groping for the words (like a mislaid
lance) with which to win for me some token
of your esteem.

lady, the images dance, and like my
heart, they can not sit still. try as I might
with hands to keep them fast, they slip away,
like loose-held reins tied tight about my will.
i must ask you:

when i am vanquished by time's cruel tourney,
will you deign still to wrap your smile about
my broken shoulder? that much i'll need when
i make that final journey home: one
small piece of you.

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This appeared in Poetry.com and is protected by American copyright law. If Poetry.com is good for anything, it's at least good for insuring that your work is recognized as yours outside the home country. My other work is protected by "the poor man's copyright."

So You're a Poet

Dexter Lira - 12 September 2001

And that is all you do?
Bleed ink when some young lovely pricks you?
Scream freedom when you tire of life?
You do not fuck
You do not have a job, or a car, or money
Or do anything else that would otherwise
Justify your sorry existence
Except to indulge in the very shakeable belief
In your power to move the universe with words

Do you honestly believe that the universe gives a damn about your life?
I'm part of the universe. And I don't.
I'm too busy fucking (you should try it, it's fun)
I'm too busy working for a living
I'm too busy driving my car and spending my money
And unlike you, I can justify my existence: I have a life.
I am secure in the knowledge that in this universe
It is I who must move. And I do.

When life stabs ME I leak real blood, copious amounts
Lost to sustain my adulterous anopheles wife
And her wriggling bloodworm kids
When life threatens to flatten me I fight back,
With work, with fists, with lawsuits if I have to.
I do not wait for princess charming to climb my
Makati tower, to rescue me before I jump.
I leave no death poems: I don't need them.
My life has meaning. More than you'll ever know,
Or frame in your sorry verse

Peddle your poems somewhere else.
Pathetic whiny little bastards, the lot of you.