King Of The Street Poetry School

King Of The Street Poetry School
© Surazeus
2018 07 23

This way my heart will swallow all your words
and change faces of strangers on the street
to traffic signs that show which way to go
because we are the most important people
who ever lived in history of the world
therefore we record everything we do
so all future generations will read
stories about our love lives and careers
and write biographies about our failures
with critical reviews about our triumphs.

Or I am the animal in your cage
who wears the mask of the angel of light
so when I come to you in the dark night
you will feel hidden vibrations of hate
that emanate from the pen of my hand
which architects the structure of your mind
teaching you how to experience faith
by savoring the doubt that blinds your eyes
when you drive down another signless street
still looking for where the party is at.

However you might escape the contract
you signed with the devil in the gray suit
you will want to hitchhike to the lost lake
in the mountains where no one knows your name
to play the flute of ecstasy without
hangups that suppress bitterness of joy
because I am not your compliant toy
eager to participate in your game
although I will always bake you lemon cake
when you return from transcendental state.

I am the king who rules in this here town
for every surreal poem that I compose
blows away your lame attempt at great art
because I stand on stage in bar and church
to slam your fake sincerity of faith
with every howl of arrogant despair
that proves I am more victim than you are
so I deserve more sympathy than you
since I am more marginalized and silenced
therefore I have earned more noble respect.

With every jagged line of broken verse
I curse the powers who rule the world of letters
to challenge my betters with humble pride
and laugh when you try to hide behind doors
of institutional authority through greed
by wrestling the boors who control the money
and defy the gate-keepers who clutch tightly
at the pillars of academic power
by deciding what friend of theirs will win
the golden prize of the state laureateship.

Behold the faces of the noble minds,
captured in old black and white photographs,
who conjured free spells of fractured insight
that seem to explain the unspoken thought
which almost gives shape to elusive truth
by molding concepts from unusual words
in extravagant phrases of expression
that takes our minds leaping beyond the facts
through twisted formulas of verbal tricks
which reveal the terror behind the wall.

I drive my car through vast Manhattan maze,
hunting phony prophets of poetry
to prove I am the greatest poet of all
because only the poems that I compose
are authentic expressions of the truth
as outlined by poetic principles
my friends and I devised while drinking wine
to dominate the journals and reviews
with poems of our friends and most loyal students
who shall be rewarded with teaching jobs.

Only I will decide what eager poet
should be member of our exclusive school
of urban prognosticators who chant
lofty incantations of naked wonder
about ironic state of social issues
because they acknowledge my divine genius
based on one hundred poems about real truth
published by the best verse magazines
twenty years ago so I earned the right
to reign as king of poets in this town.

The homeless poet wearing tattered coat
stands on the street corner outside cafes
and opens water-sogged notebook of pages
smeared with illegible scribbles in loops
under splotches of mud and crushed rose petals
then shouts gibberish at the passers-by
with arm lifted up toward the shining sky
and the light of wisdom burns in his eye
while he speaks with the voice of prophecy
as people throw coins in his greasy hat.

I am the shaman of the ancient truth,
he proclaims to the driver who waves back,
though you are so vain you probably think
my satire poem mocks your arrogant pride,
but I never heard your name before now
and my poetry is better than yours
so I proclaim myself the king of poets,
for I founded the Street Poetry School,
then he falls silent in the twilight zone
and drifts to sleep in the door of the bank.