Mr Korth

Running down dimly lit hallways,
past doors locked down with copper padlocks
that gleam and shimmer in the magnificence
of my freedom,
I'm a woman, and I am a God,
And I search

For Mr Korth.

Drum crash in the very
Hollows of my soul,
Tempestuous howls fill my
Darkling ears,
Mountains raging to be free
Of the earth,
Tearing, uprooting, rending themselves
And the question

Who is Mr Korth?

The original writer, the man
Who told me about ideas and structure
And beauty,
lah-de dah and fah-la-lah,
I dance in the burning rain.

Look at me, Mr Korth!

Spare your words, did you say?
Art is thought, art is beauty,
And simplicity of expression?
Art is the ability to get your point across
Without extravagance?
Art is knowing not how words seem,
But what they mean, Mr Korth?
I scream into the loving, embracing night.

Goddamn you, Mr Korth.

Poetry is actually having
Something
To say
Is it,
Mr Korth?

Poetry is knowing
Where to rhyme,
Where to bring rhythm
To one's sentences
Where to silently and quietly weave a melody
so that beauty may be achieved?
Poetry is actually wanting to communicate?

No, Mr Korth.

Do you see, Mr Korth
What I have done?
I have created art and poetry,
I have nothing to say and
No one I want to say it to.
This is for my own sake,
Because I want to see what's inside my own mind,
But I don't want to ask why it's there.
All I have to do is put commas and full stops
wherever I want.
Type out one long line
Close my eyes
And hit ENTER wherever I feel like,
And it's poetry,
And it's beauty.

Are you listening, Mr Korth?

No metaphors, Mr Korth
Don't try to figure out
What I'm saying
I don't actually have a point
You old fool, why do we even need a point?
Isn't it enough that we feel things?
The mind is unimportant,
Wisdom passé;
Communication must now be garbled and cloaked,
Made mysterious by employing long and beautiful sounding words
and phrases and odd sentence constructions,
Your simplicity, your beauty,
Your Gibran and your Blake
What the hell did they know?
And you, labouring to always make your point.

You're a damned fool, Mr Korth.

And the winds still rage,
Gales blowing,
Into the silent sphere of my
Singular time-space continuum,
And my naked, wind-driven soul,
Inflamed with this carnal lust
for the fires of expression,
inveighs still

Against Mr Korth.

Your days are over, Mr Korth
These are the days of irresponsible intelligence
and rampant emotionality and extravagant expression.
What use do we have for you?
Go away, and let us forget you.

And stop laughing, Mr Korth.