I Don't Want to Be a Poet

I’ll be a Marxist, a Communist
A pacifist, an anarchist, a Democrat
Red, white, green or blue
Whatever I can do
To get in bed with you

                —The Bastard Fairies, Memento Mori

I don’t want to be a poet
Just to be heard by other
Poets or would-be poets
At some phony
Open mike poetry
Readings or poetry
Slams with everyone
Desperate for attention—

I don’t want to be a poet
Just to be lost in the
Nameless crowd of others
Like me, analyzing my style
And imagery, taking notes
Of what works and what
Doesn’t—

I don’t want to be a poet
If being a poet means
Being a part of some
Closed and exclusive
Community of those
Who think they know
The true meaning
Of my words—

I just want to walk the
Streets away from other
Poets because that is
What I do best when
I am alone—

For poetry is a personal
Business, not to be
Confused with some
Circus performance
Or competition of who
Has the most spectacular
Act in the show—

For I have left the
Show long time ago
To the pretty boys
With acoustic guitars,
Serenading pretty
Young girls
With overactive
Libidos—

No, I don’t want to be a poet
Just to get laid
Or get some rise out of you,
Or to hear you flatter
My choice of words,
So that I can flatter
You in return—

I don’t want to be a poet
Just to pretend that
I know where you’re
Coming from,
For I have no idea
Of who you are
Or what you’re after—
A new lover, a new car,
A million dollar jackpot,
Or a following that
Worships your words?

No, you have never been
In my shoes, nor have I
Been in yours,
So let’s not pretend
That we believe
Or feel the same way—

And you can call me
Or write me,
Telling me all about it,
For in the end you
Just want someone
To pinch your nerve
Or to tickle your throat,
To lick your nipples
Or to caress your crotch—

But I’m probably
Not the one
To do the job—

I don’t want to be a poet
To give you an orgasm
Or to make you
Feel good about yourself—

I’m just here masturbating
With my words, and if
It tickles you or
Disturbs you—it’s just
Fine with me,
And if it makes you
Get up in the morning
And look at things
In a different light—
It’s really OK—

But I had nothing to
Do with your getting laid
With that girl that
You tried some bullshit on—
That was you, not me—

For I’m just another man,
Expressing who I am
In this fucked up world
Of oversexed and
Brain-dead idiots...

And nothing more.

   March 26, 2007
--Alexander Shaumyan