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Beatniks and Nuditudes
©05.28.2017, Olan L. Smith
I'm beaten down, man, to the bottom of the street
No fare, no care, no wares to sell or food to eat.
I'm a beatitude, nuditude, tuba-tude, lost among the
Picnicking, sputniking, surfniking, beatniks,
Without a dime, somewhere between Cherry and Scat
Street, where hope lays fallow where dusty roads
Tastes like dirt, and splatitudes clash with Christ's beatitudes.
What poet stands above the stench of prose, and the rich novelist
Who whines about his sales? The poet is strung out on life begging
For penitence, he joins artists in oblivion to move the earth,
One word at a time, alongside wet paint splashed on canvases
Used as drip clothes on the garage floor of Jackson Pollock.
Drip words, let them fall from your mouth like wet paint upon
Dry canvases―be the expressionik of today, change the world.
YOU ARE READING
Poems from the Quill, by Olan L. Smith
Poetry"Poems from the Quill" is where I place current works that don't fall into other collections. It is here you will find obscure poems that range from constraint to free-verse. I began this collection as a contest entry, years ago, for what was then t...
