ben smith | cold leftovers

Cold Leftovers

There will be no more Burroughs.

No more Bukowski’s.

There will never be another

There will never again
be a world famous poet.

There will only be me
and others
like me.


who hulk around
In the shadows
of the genius
that the big fella’s
left behind.

Spamming the internet
with half thought

ripped from the lips
of other peoples

And we will tell tales
of drunkards
and whores
and brawls

and nothing;

We will only have
whispers while the other
men screamed.

and the howls of the past
will haunt our trying voice
as it whimpers


Like children crying
for a hug

0 Replies to “ben smith | cold leftovers”

  1. Great poem, Ben, a cosmic blast at the past —

    Has it ever been otherwise? The process of assimilation and re-visioning
    goes on and on.
    I’m not sure anyone would want to be like the poets referenced in this good
    poem — maybe the poem is an admonition? We learn from the odd
    missteps of our forebears. . . Or, maybe not?

    There is so much more that writing could do and still has miles to go — for
    example it is a long way behind painting and light years behind jazz.

    So, that’s something to strive for: pushing writing into a more effective expression.

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