Furrow away your sonnets for a falser love, for the time
You need persuading – or to deflect the needs
Of a lover; when guilt drips down like a skinless Clementine.
Peel me - Drain me – Deliver me from dreams.

We’ll bury Sinatra and his torch-songs - on their grave
We’ll scratch out that they gave it a go.
They would’ve had us believe that melodies, if saved
Can articulate better than the blood we know.

I’m not that crafty. When the masses are slurring
And debasing, I’ll cheer the anarchist likeness
But I’ll go mute. I’ll write you a praise poem, deferring
To the honesty of my own flesh.

These days it doesn’t take a writer to see
That here come the poets and there go the fleas.