for some certain poets who write often of the void as if it were a lover

by Paul Harrison

no matter how well
you craft the lines
or the line breaks
falling
down
a page
no matter how well
you dance with Death
and her handmaidens
despair and ennui
no matter how often
you elicit
gushing
responses
from people
who live
mostly
comfortable
lives
who have rarely been intimate with Death
or seen the mess it leaves behind
who respond
to your unquiet horror
with words like
'yea, baby'
'emotive, surreal',
'real nice'
'bravo',
'i dig it, man...'
no matter how often
that fawning gallery
swoons all over
your nihilism
your one trick pony poetic shtick
no matter how often
you dissemble
yourself
or dissemble to others
no matter how
many times
you glimpse
or approach
or rework
the abyss
that which is all
our birthrights
no matter
that
the nothinginess
the void
you crave so much
more than
cigarettes
more than
love
more than
drugs
more than
recognition
is something very ugly
no matter that
often i wish
you'd just shut up
or put up
and take
the trip
the jump
the cut
the handful of pills
the swing
the plunge
a shot to your gut
because
no matter what
i'll be sure, to be cheering you on...