-dedicated to my main man James Jackson
You can call me the dollar sign,
Mister Rock $tar poet.
You see I'm seen to be constantly gloating
the scene I'm bemoaning, seen it slowly eroding
and I've been dancing around the real cause
it's these page FUCKING POETS,
a bunch of horrible bores.
We got tired saggy words coming out tired saggier faces
old from decades verbal masturbating in public spaces
they're continually obtuse in their thesaurus abuse
their meanings are impenetrable
their use of language largely is terrible
art degrees got nothing to communicate
except that they’re intellectual vegetables.
most of you academic poets aren't fit to carry my bags
your attempts to entertain people... are not even sad
here anything masculine is condemned and bemoaned
terrified of even faintest traces of testosterone
they’re desperate clutching to retain the status-quoe
and beyond those limits you dare not go.
Their hearts had already long sunk
before the room started stinking from their funk
and here’s the thing,
they think they can, but can't, really sing,
hell, they can't half of them even write,
and their constructions therein are quite simply... trite
their rhythms are shite and their pacing ain't tight
when they're on stage hours will drag on... for hours,
and hours... and hours making for a...long, long... long... night.
It becomes painful as thirty poets do in your head,
wading through their literary muck.
Expect they’d entertain you? Well as Dirty Harry said,
...looks like you're shit out of luck.
‘cause I don't want to hear about your fucking shopping
your dead cat's got cancer, your spilt milk mopping
or any more of this sanctimonious spew
about your highly refined political views
so far left you left us all behind
get me mad enough to push me right, half of the time.
Let's be clear, for once this is not self directed
my dear, I've sat through one-too-many lectures
think they have the right to tell us how it’s done
just hating on the ones who make poems for exhibition.
Jealous they can't get a crowd
hold a crowd, move a crowd,
all they do is cower in corners,
whispering "oh dear ... he's far too loud."
I’m the man making a mark, call me The Dollar Sign
plan on making poetry my bitch, and taking her from behind.
I know now I’ll never be an establishment darling
twelve published boring books tucked under my arms
that no motherfucker wants to read
I’m just out here, hungry - one big mouth to feed
I’m a dirty street poet turning performative tricks
fiending like mad for my next popular audience fix.
A friend once called the stuff sleazy,
it’s ended up being more and more greasy
another said that my poetry felt deep fried
apt enough, fills me with bonefied pride
‘cause I'll any-day take a ham-fist over a limp-wrist
I’ll get ‘em all to listen up to my fucken shit
while others inflict punters with impenetrable mutter and st-st-stammer.
if I can’t make mine fit
I'll take to the words with a bigger hammer.
Returned to this green city to pull back the curtain
with clarity simplicity and a meaning that is certain
with rhymes that are all working
with a pathos to leave you hurting
other poets might give you a smile in passing
I’ll leave you there stitched, stomach hurts and you're still laughing
on stage standing here tall... like an erection
getting you results more decisive than the last election.
And folks I done had it up to here!
like I been fucked in the ears
and now I'm telling ya
in all the hearts of the pretenders to this art.
Because now down the mountain
to make my mark, see how far I get
and you just look like targets
ground beneath looking a little unstable?
like it's been foretold in the fables
in biblical proportions, gonna come turn-over your fucking tables.
Poetry's my temple, and verily I cast you out
a sight once sacred, it's a crime scene now,
you FUCKING POETS, are the probable cause
Dollar Sign here - a mad prophet out for a profit
stripped you of your clothes from of the emperor
You better get going... before I really lose my temper.
Part I -(You Fuckin' Poet)
Part II -(Fly By Night)