"'We are no fragile poets, "'he said

"sipping panaceas;

no,

we bleed in these bloody times.

Our descriptors screech-

show calluses.

Our gerunds

are heavy-laden,

participled

and unrelieved.

In our time

we've had concourse

with the dark and delicious.

Our tiny lusts are autographed

on our eyelids. We have ridden the night bull

and kissed cold similes;

licked razor blades,

cut ourselves.

Our body linings

have slipped to edges-

scabs removed-

our scars exposed.

Our loves have been tattooed

on our foreheads and we consume

what we love best.

We've known villainous reprieves-

raw extremes.

We've seen our low expectations

sucked dry;

our joyless roses decline to bloom;

we have seen steeled excusings,

blatant excrescences

resent me's,

poxed regrets,

vampire ideologies,

deeply cutting debaucheries

and Unspeakeries.

We've had

our wisdom wrung

from emotion's sponge;

our oasises

have been carved from pulp existence-

our meanings extracted

from Carpathian realities.
 

We are no fragile poets then

opining on slippery metaphysical surfaces.

We are similes' survivors-

denizens of the electron brainscape;

voices winnowing;

down into the strangled  world;

our task is, nonetheless  

is to re-dream all things.

Our callouses grant us the mettle,

our hearts show the way

our determination is un-sunk.

We must be the Rough Poets

eyeball to eyeball

with both Dream and Reality;

we must brandish

the Seemly

unagainst the Unseemly

and remain true to Poetries."