from Übermanis Geniac #2


Well, Jim, you’re dead, you know you are
the only one who’s left behind a myth
past the valour of his verse. A plinth
has been erected, above a sewer,
because poets translate muck back into water.

The myth holds you versified in youth;
I hated writing, couldn’t match my thought,
speech likewise, stutters, speedbumps, at speed,
and leaps surprising me, of brevity and depth,
a signal, I took, of concepts kept
on higher courts of consciousness—Strewth,

mate!, my Aussie drinking neighbours
would remark; keep it light
and breezy! I didn’t know I knew
until I spoke, that’s what got me started,
why I wrote drunk, to begin with, the easy
way I had with words

translated awfully on to paper,
spontaneity with abandonment, the
careful study of this in sobriety
plus extra time alone confirmed the poem
as epistle to the rightness of the creed.