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That's, Like, Really Profound. Isn't it?

I grind my ax out here, you twit,
Upon the nearest paving stone,
And use it on the objects and the
Villains I see going past. That
Stony wheel you keep inside,
The one which can't be worked
Without a year or two of theory
Classes, essays, explanations
For the dullness and the ragged
Edges of these concepts
(Lacking handles) which you
Label "poetry, " are not of any
Use to me. You may as well
Be masturbating. Close the
Door and call yourself an artist.
As you do your best, and,
Sticky-fingered, cash your grant,
The arbiters of taste applaud.
You're in a chapbook, labeled
Tomb, to which the people
Passing by, out here, are loath
To ever go. They'd rather watch
Me swing my weapon, slay your
Sort and villains passing. You
May mount your pretty prize.
I'd rather have my ax.

poem by Lawrence Beck
Added by Poetry Lover
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