Poetry is the language of imagination
Poetry is a form of positive creation
Difficult...isn't it? The point...ya missin it
Rockin's kinda new to me cause my true love is poetry
I don't know what you thought, hops, but chief I've got tall props see
This be...the rebuttal version
To mister academic who does not believe that my poems would...
could...should...have muscles...and bodies...like this one.
I want my poem to be brazen and long legged
and squash mud under a hard yellow heals wicked gravity.
I wish to leave this lab of brains swishing in jars
and write poems that shatter glass with undeniable bodies.
I want to be a word that wants to be a sweating brick
so drink that through your pointed teeth and...critique it.
I want to be the strophe that strokes the ear in salty heaves,
a spine that bends and works like the dance you shut the door to be.
Listen to me...with your hips.
Clutch this line in the fleshy grip of bold thighs
Eat through your ears and drink through your pores
and if you see me splashed across a page,
Know that a leaf is a tongue that you wear to make love
to a voice not your own...eat this poem,
Floss with the barbed length of a simile
and scrape your tongue across the living verses
bristling skin my eye is just my eye, I promise...
I believe in closure, but not in hospital corners
the way first principles are real but untraceable; see
God is meaning, means becoming, means I knock before I come in,
Means I wriggle through the riddle of the flesh to out-sweat it,
Means I wear my impertinence upon my fluttering lip.
My refusal to bow out to some abstract curtain
and exist backstage by the sandbags and pulleys,
Hell fucking no! I exist to be seen!
To see and be seen, to push my I to the thou
Because the premise of my rhythm is the un-apologetic
emphatic insistence of the declarative sentence.
That's right bad boy, I am...I is...I be, fuck you.
I can speak about myself and rhyme in couplets if I want to,
I am...I is...I be...I do...I self...I delf...I solo...I dolo...
is...is..is...is...I...I...I...am my mother's talk stories from beginning to end.
Listen to this poem...with your hips.
- Denizen Kane
selected verse from What You Thought Hops
