A poem's pretty, yes,
But best when
Snarly imps swim
Just beneath the lilies.
No dandies here —
Only madmen, loners,
Ragmen, songsters,
Skillful silversmiths
Shape-shaking shudderwords
That crumbleslide foundations.
That gentle scribbler over there
Eats fire for breakfast,
Like a samurai
Cleaving his poems with
Twin gleaming swords a-blur.
He wrestled a prominent
Vampire 'cross the lawn last night,
Broke that honored neck,
Drank respectable blood,
Transformed it into roaring wordsongs—
I saw dripping when he grinned.
Terror waits below
The skyblue surface,
Not for audacious seekers (who
Know the mind's ways well),
But for the merciless smug ones
Who pillage, hoard and snore,
And think a poem's
Heart is only flowers.