Swell My Empty Head, Please!

Swell My Empty Head, Please!

Don’t say there’s something wrong with it,
but say something, please;
say it’s the best thing you’ve ever heard
                                                 since radio waves were first given a voice;
say you’d bankrupt the galaxies,
their stars to sacrifice to my ego Most Worthy;
say it reels realer than reality’s true self;
say it happened to your brother’s father’s other wife’s son’s brother’s father;
say there’s a moral instruction to it;
say I’ve won your soul with it,
                             and there’s joy in  heaven’s golden streets;
say, ‘This author deserves an award.’
Say something!
Haven’t I written what you wanted to hear?
Don’t say there’s anything wrong with it;
don’t say it’s too long,
like reciting all of Psalm 119 before a meal
while hunger’s eating your intestines
in rapid cycles of John 11:35;
don’t say it’s too short,
                          the pleasure too abrupt,
                                  disappointing,
like coition under premature ejaculation’s silent terrorism,
for which none can ‘call 911!’
Don’t say that being a bad writer, my writings be fraught with run-on sentences
with participial phrases and grammatical subjects not on talking terms,
                        spawning statements  that bother on madmen’s ramblings
                                           in the voice of the personality on-air;
don’t say the subjects and verbs is PDP factions
                                                   – no agreement today, no agreement tomorrow;
don’t say the humour is forced or made scarce by the recession in my laughless mind;
dont say the end was predictable,
                                                     and the tension uncreative, the plot bland;
don’t say the theme is like a dream, fuzzy;
don’t say the characters developed poorly,
their ideosyncracies unrealistic,
                                            their dialogues mechanical.
And what d’you mean my lines lacked cadence?
Are you deaf to the sheer obligato – the very music – of my style?
Can you even write?
How dare you say my writing sucks?
What qualifies you to ask, ‘How is this rubbish radio-worthy?’
Don’t say there’s something wrong with it;
don’t say you don’t understand the setting
– say it’s deep,
(O, this intellectually stimulating multiplicity of disorienting perspectives and messed-up tenses!)
– say you can’t get over it,
                                                 and dash stars like obsessed ninjas,
and say something nice
                                      about this literary ebola,
like, ‘Please, when can you air it again?’
      and the radio voice says, ‘Go download the app.’
A thousand times, say something
                        – as long as it’s not that bitter truth –
                                                      say it,                                                                                and swell my empty head, please!
                                             Or
don’t say anything at all.


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