sweet home-made poisons

A simple poem, by Emanuel Xavier

I want you to continue writing
because I will not always be around

With lips that will never touch mine 
read your poems out loud 
so that the words are left engraved on the wall 
make me feel your voice rush through me 
like a breeze from Oyá

I want to hear about Puerto Rico 
about sisters with names like La Bruja 
about educating youth about AIDS 
I want to hear about life in the Boogie Down Bronx 
surviving on the Down Low 
don’t leave out stories about men 
you have loved and still love

I want you to write poems that you will never read 
press hard on the paper so that the ink runs deep 
hold the pen tight so that you control the details 
prove to me that I inspire you 
reveal yourself between the lines 
hear my praise with each flicker of the candle 
Write a poem for me

Do not choose a fresh page from a brand new journal 
use paper that has been crumbled and tossed 
thrown out by a spineless father only to be recycled 
Save a tree for future poets to write under

Rewrite me into someone more attractive 
stronger than life has made me 
make me tough and sexy, aggressive like a tiger 
stain the pages with cum, lube, the arousal you find 
at the sight of naked boys, draw me sketches 
bring the words to life with images 
make me a man with this poem

Read it in front of the audience 
with hidden messages just for me 
be real and tell me why 
I am only worth a haiku

Your epics are meant for others 
I already know, 
use red ink to match the blood from these wounds 
with brutal honesty 
let me die with your last sentence

Then resurrect me with rhyme 
read from your gut 
let me hear the wisdom of mi abuelo in your voice 
let me find my father in you 
remind me of all the men that left me broken promises

In your eyes I want to see a poem 
when you bring me to tears 
with painful memories 
buried beneath your thick skin

Between teeth gapped like divas, 
I want to hear quotes from books 
I never read

Make me believe you want to be a poet

Make my heart break, 
tell me why you could never love me 
with just a few words 
leave me lost and insecure 
feel the admiration of others 
bask in their desire 
forget that I am there

Pound your fists in the air with passion 
go off about politics, poverty, machismo and hate 
scream poems that don’t give a fuck 
about traditions, slamming or scores 
save your whispers for those who make love to you

Write a poem for me that makes me want to puff a joint

A poem that loses control 
unafraid to be vulnerable 
for once just make me believe 
it is all worth letting go 
when the smoke clears 
I will understand 
the reason 
I am just another face 
in the crowd

I want you to continue writing 
because I will not always be around

The Death Of Art, by Emanuel Xavier

“Reading well is one of the great pleasures that solitude can afford you” - critic Harold Bloom, who first called slam poetry “the death of art”

I am not a poet. I want to be rich and buy things for my family.

Besides, I am sort of popular and can honestly say I’ve had a great sex life.

I am not a poet. Georgia O’ Keefe paintings do absolutely nothing for me. I do not feel oppressed or depressed and no longer have anything to say about the President.

I am not a poet. I do not like being called an “activist” because it takes away from those that are out on the streets protesting and fighting for our rights.

I am not a poet. I eat poultry and fish and suck way too much dick to be considered a vegetarian.

I am not a poet. I would most likely give my ass up in prison before trying to save it with poetry …and I’d like it! Heck, I’d probably be inspired.

I am not a poet. I may value peace but I will not simply use a pen to unleash my anger. I would fuck somebody up if I had to.

I am not a poet. I may have been abused and had a difficult life but I don’t want pity. I believe laughter and love heals.

I am not a poet. I am not dying. I write a lot about AIDS and how it has affected my life but, despite the rumors, I am not positive. Believe it or not, weight loss amongst sexually active gay men could still be a choice.

I am not a poet. I do not get Kerouac or honestly care much for Bukowski.

I am not a poet. I don’t spend my weekends reading and writing. I like to go out and party. I like to have a few cocktails but I do not have a drinking problem regardless of what borough, city or state I may wake up in.

I am not a poet. I don’t need drugs to open up my imagination. I’ve been a dealer and had a really bad habit but that was long before I started writing.

I am not a poet. I can seriously only tolerate about half an hour of spoken word before I start tuning out and thinking about my grocery list or what my cats are up to.

I am not a poet. I only do poetry events if I know there will be cute guys there and I always carry business cards.

I am not a poet according to the scholars and academics and Harold Bloom. I only write to masturbate my mind. After all, fucking yourself is one of the great pleasures that solitude can afford you.

I am not a poet. I am only trying to get attention and convince myself that poetry can save lives when my words simply and proudly contribute to “the death of art.”

(VIA MANUEL GONZALEZ)

A minor incident, by Badly Drawn Boy

There’s nothing I could say to make you try to feel okay,
And nothing you could do to stop me feeling the way I do.
And if the chance should happen that I never see you again,
Just remember that I’ll always love you.

I’d be a better person on the other side I’m sure.
You’d find a way to help yourself,
And find another door.
To shrug off minor incidents,
And make us both feel proud.
I’d just wish I could be there to see you through.

You always were the one to make us stand out in a crowd,
Though every once upon a while your head was in a cloud.
There’s nothing you could never do to ever let me down,
And remember that I’ll always love you.