From 'R' by Peycho Kanev, Felino Soriano, Duane Locke, Edward Wells II

The Poetry Is Nothing To Fuck With

Well, let me explain to you:

the bum on the street, with
the bottle hanging in his maddened
pocket,
retching his hand to you
is poetry
all the f-male creatures of the night
dressed in cut skirts and sucking
cigarettes in their colored mouths
are poetry
all the girls in the punk clubs
with their anger and their beauty
and their stamina
are poetry
the bombs that falls down in the trenches
and tear up bodies and transform them
into piles of useless organic junk
are poetry
the demented men in the madhouses,
strapped to their beds, foaming, cursing, shaking,
their heads full of pills and visions
are poetry
the bars full of quiet, sheltered, beautiful,
little people, staring down at their glasses
filled with hopes for something better
are poetry
Hemingway’s shotgun was poetry
the bullet too
the booze is
poetry
the drugs are
poetry
the dead trees
the wasted lands
the knife in your
hand
your girlfriend lying
in the bed
everything and
everyone
is poetry
and at the end
when this world
explodes into the nothing
it will be poetry too
no more
no
less.