Night Shed

The mean poet

He was mean, the poet

Homer is a weatherman, he said.
Crashed through the woods
As, pine needles popped into his unseeing eyes
And, scratching like a cat,
He disappeared into the mouth of a boar.

Poems such as his were always long and full of violence.
He disguised the fact he was psychotic
(He had dreams of being his mother)
By making people feel like they were cruel
Next to his intellectually honest rhyming.

A crime that with time is paid by lessons
Creating a viscous slipping by of children.
And with a markedly greater prisoner count
As, a crippled woman fooling herself into
Being the only one left on the stage of useful life.

But you know that as mean and vicious as I am,
You can do the things you do without any
Thought for anyone but yourself and Homer,
As, when a bardic voice calls forth the fearful final
Spinning of life's painful dark, spare and lonely answers.