"Lies, lies, everywhere,
writhing and gasping." says O'Hara.
Not so,
they are much stronger than that.
We must beat them to death
with poems.

Its our purpose,
to use the blunt instrument of words,
to be real shtarkers,
leg breakers for truth.
We'll make the world pay up.

Some lies are tough.
Might take more than one whack.
We'd better make these poems
as hard as iron, as hard as
Nalgahide's lead pipe.

Carry the Immortal Bard
like a two by four, tote Montale
beneath your coat like a mallet, Corso
like brass knuckles deep in your pocket.
Use 'em to smack some schmo
upside the haid.
A snap of Bukowski's
steel toed boot to the nuts.

Why do you think they whacked Markish
and the others 08-12-52?
Because Stalin disliked their rhyme
and meter? Hell, no. It was to protect
the lies that poetry can kill.

So, why don't they kill us?
Have we lain down too long
with their lies? Will a twenty
on the dresser
shut us up? Or, perhaps they
have grown too sharp.

Why ban Howl when they can bury it
beneath Britney?
Don't lock the diamonds in a safe
and surround them with guards.
Just toss them into a pile of
shattered glass.

Still, we will dive right in up
to our eyeballs.
For it's those slicing slivers
that we're after.
We'll wrap our fists
in duct tape,
and roll them in glue and glass.

When there's another
Night of the Murdered Poets,
and it's us they kill,
at last we'll know
that we got it
right.