A poem should only be beautiful.
Captivating, prospering in a yet unforeseen angle.
It is like a rapist’s opus, whose words
Penetrate over and over, after the first read,
Like the memory of the rape,
So hard to let go, so electric, so violable,
And the love that climbed
Inside in force and stood reflected
In every line, of every verse.
The rapist goes ahead, again and again,
Violating the mind of the editor,
With forcible intercourse,
So that the work, will transcend,
Just for the sole reason, it was no consensual fling,
Between poet and journal. It was a brutal rape,
Of the psyche, that was nailed
In cold blood, words that stood out
And made love with the corpus
Of the brain, making the seed of subjectivity, irrelevant.
And rape becomes not just the poet’s achievement,
It is also the editor’s willingness,
To be raped by a few metaphoric verses,
The orgasm of the hour, echoing even now,
The agony of defeat and still a triumph.
How one rape is all it takes,
To leapfrog a poet to the center of the full moon,
From the clutches of sheer obscurity.
One freak, Franken poem,
An orgasm so loud, it deafened
All comparisons, and became
A paragon, and the writer,
A Shakespeare wannabe, a rapist nevertheless,
Who stood like Jack the Ripper,
Knowing any poem has the license,
To rape the mind, and how beautiful is a poem,
Breaking through the corpus callosum,
The hymen of the brain,
Ripping away any unintended prejudice,
While consummating the pinnacle
Of intuitive beauty.