I want to be one of those poets

I want to be one of those poets
Morose poets
Whose misanthropic throes of agony
towards their unaccepting society
result in late night recitals
with raunchy underworld types
women who speak elvish
and men who wear tights
Oh I’d be the best of the bunch I am sure
Impressing young emos with my gangly allure
Cheekbones all high Bleach-skinned and demure
Not dissimilar to Robert Smith from The Cure
The public would wonder at what it was that ailed me
Was it depression, repression or just a bad case of TB?
And these questions would hover at my feet to empower me,
With a desire for excesses that would begin to grow hourly

Cos I want to be one of those poets
Those prose poets
Who Juxtapose
Their unhealthy dose of rhyme
With a bawdy lifestyle in the bars at closing time
You know, those guys in frayed suede jackets
With a far-off shine
on their eyes
Mahogany breath that smells of wine
and impressionable women’s thighs
Oh, I’d witter so well about current affairs
After a few whisky chasers and chocolate éclairs
Late night politics shows with cigars and some port
Devising my next snide and witty retort
Writing heightened thoughts during soulless
int-er-course
And then of course,
the daily horseplay I’d enact without remorse

Cos I want to be one of those poets
Verbose poets
Who don’t even suppose that it offends yer
When they urinate through your letterbox during an all night bender
And you can send through a bill but I won’t even remember
To open the envelope before it goes in the blender
You call it weird, Well I call it arty
If I bring my own cutlery to your dinner party
And sit there flinging forks at your husband quite smartly
It’d make a great Pollock effect if I hit his left artery
My tendancy to act weird would start to do your head in
You’d invite me to the reception but never to the wedding
And I’d produce heartbled work of unpleasantness so graphic
It’d routinely offend every possible demographic
Touting me as both 'edgy' and 'complicated'
Like a rubiks cube so complex it’s actually become frustrated
with itself till it’s squares are dilated
desperate to be free of the prison it’s created,
a technicolour snowglobe when once each side was flat
And if you think that I’m sounding a bit of a twat
Just you wait, soon I’ll stretch all my similes like that

Co I want to be one of those poets
Closed poets
Who will not be there to catch you when you fall
But will thatch a caul so snug and tight
Out of neatly measured metaphors on their laptop late at night
That you’ll realise your shame was both trivial and trite
Upon reading the drafted version on my myspace site
I’d write in-depth attacks on our political system,
Waxing lyrical with anyone who will listen
No time for passion in life, I’ve long forgot the kissing
Just get me some fridge poetry and I’ll never leave the kitchen

Cos I want to be one of those poets
A know it all poet, a throw it all away poet

At least they know what kind of poets they are