The son of a poet
is a dismal bloody thing.
For Father's disrhythmics
disrupted and forsaken
to WordyAge.
VerbyAge
thrusts on him
since the moment of birth,
like an ill-but-tight-fitting robe.
His cries rhyme,
so profane, so sublime.
Sweet music to the ear of a hungover scribe
used to beating the life out of a vibe.
Divorces, remorses, rejoices, all forces
combine to drive
the son of a poet
as far away from Poetry
as the nearest dive,
the Prose.
6 февраля 2016 г.