Poem in a nice suit

I can start this poem as a list

of the things I want to have I

don’t want to have ethics I

want to have brass balls I

don’t want intelligence I want

confidence I don’t want love

I want an expensive tie that I

can loosen up at the bar after

work I don’t want your cookie

I want the pomegranate of this

messed up world

 

I came to London thinking it

had been erected on layers of

history but there’s nothing of

that it sustains itself wholly

on cafes pubs restaurants discos

gentlemens clubs the role of all

these things is to sell you an hour

of feeling like you earn £70.000

a year

 

London is a great salesman

judging by this poem it has sold

me this model of life without

history every great salesman is

of course a poet who makes

up his verse as he goes along

 

Me I’ve been fooled I’ve been

embezzled of my money my

blood so many times I grew

wise now I get it London old

maestro I get why they say

that only from poverty

you can make great art not

because it makes you wise but

because it makes you desperate

you’ve got to keep writing cause

it’s your only way out of the shit

you have U-booted your way

into when you decided not to

study Law Engineering

Mathematics Medicine poor idiot

and now I’ve got to write that

great novel or there will be

nothing for me but this 1 hour

of opulence and 23 of buyers remorse

of a house that smells of Thai

food and rats in the kitchen

 

and as for you who say that

this poem is crap because

it doesn’t have the metaphors

I just stepped out of the pub

in the office suit Hilton

provided for me and threw

the butt-end of a cigarette

into the drain and it hit the

bars and lay resting smoked

and useless and mistaken in the

streets of London and there’s

my life mate and there’s your

fucking metaphor.