Is it all about rhythm and metre and rhyme?
Or should I say ‘Fuck it, for that I've no time.’
Should I offer an anecdote chopped into lumps
Must the subject be lofty or give me goose-bumps?
Is it just stilted prose undeserving of praise?
Should it sparkle like crystal imprisoning light's rays
Could it better be said on the page of a novel?
Must the artist be struggling and live in a hovel?
Is it true content triumphs and vanquishes form?
Like the Marie-Celeste swallowed down in a storm,
A yarn or a love letter, thoughts before battle-
Is trivial wordplay my own witless prattle?
Am I lewd or obscene if the critics object?
Or perhaps just subversive, of poor intellect.
If I crumple my flag or I challenge my masters
Must I expect censure or greater disasters?
Will you think me bland if I muse on a pet?
Or trite if I speak of our troops’ blood and sweat?
My grandfather a sailor, of frigid sea's salt
Will his terrible convoy my own verse exalt?
In Mosul my brother’s blood stains their land’s soul
If I mark this in pen might it help or console?
Though I bleed with you brother and cradle your body
If there's joy to be found in a rock, is this shoddy?
If with pen I make light or deride or lampoon
Or fulminate wildly , am I the buffoon?
If on city-block walls love's avowed in graffiti
Does Mark-Anthony slight his own Nefertiti?
If I scribble and scratch well it’s with my own tools
Do I clothe my own emperor?
I'd hope not, that's for fools!
All's fair, in love, war, and pottery.
Copyright Marcus-Aurelius Preposterous 2008