I foresee a coming earthquake
In verse, the death of diffidence:
The driver will no more dispense
too little fuel, too much brake
And crawl along the roads of sense
Like someone stoned. A poet in fear
The audience may find him clear
Instead of distant, dark and dense.
Politeness! Fuck it, let’s appear
To give a damn about the mind
And heart and world at least. Go find
Your lust and love: seek far and near.
And shout out loud to humankind
Your pain and joy, defy all fake
Humility. We will not make
Our voices small or too refined.
The time has passed to be too tame
To take the stage and to declaim.