Apology (You Deserve It) Poem by Philip Housiaux

I am Sir poet to you, kiss my pen.
Modern poetry of course, or is that chopped up prose
with a few rhymes thrown in, that is
so I can ponce around in pseudo artsy dignity
without holding my nose.

Portraying my indiscretions
not as foolishness and simple dim witted reflections
but as insight and integrity
and the blossoming of a rose.

How easily I elevate my social milieu
(who needs dishonesty and a CV, pass the nachos)
with the crassest of pretensions
as to my own worth, and my ample vulgarity.
I am like the city of Paris
(I can count on your imaginations
and my feckless pride to do the rest)
if I did not exist you would have to invent me
to satisfy your need for romance, nostalgia and pathos.

I am a man of such taste and refinement
that I have abandoned words, sentences and grammars tools
in favour of an attitude, bluntly, of anything goes.
If I had an ounce of talent
I might take up French, or even work, who knows.

I am horridly ugly and invariably black frock coated
yet the chilly intensity of my recitations
makes the girls flick their hair, winnow and swoon
under a tragic and love struck moon –
as if magically, I now strike a handsome gallant pose!

So kneel at my feet and kiss my writer’s hand.
You deserve it, expect no pity
if you understood a word your’d know
in any language, I am merely overdosed!

I have no scruples, my art is at home in the public lavatory
why just last week I spied myself illustrated with valium and nodoes.
You’re all such damned fools, you
let me lead you by the hosiery
and vindictively stand upon your toes.
Idiots, if you understood a word your’d know
I am merely obscene and near comatosed!