Brutality of the Poets

Lacking delicacy your lying sandpaper tongue
seduces the hearts and hips of your
beatnik boys and gypsy girls
tasting the incense in the line of your jaw, lips
on collarbones; here and there indifferently.
And fists I would beat the barren, parched earth
for want of a muse, toying thing – sway, girl
enticing swagger your Levi's don't hide
the alluring sensuality of your delicate knees.
And the brutality of the poet leaves
our waiting line comrades
with a knowing limp.