Contemporary Poets Poem by nathan martin

i read the others, ginsberg, kerouac,
and burroughs.

i dont want to be like them lewdly cynical,
immorally impowered by a shelf full of
hardbound paper and dust.

undrawing their livingroom curtains,
standing in the middle of the room
half naked wearing toga's and
turtlenecks.

frail f-ing bas-ds with oversized heads.
pretending to be like whitman, or frost.

at least bukowski had the decency not to
even try to keep an intellectual toga over himself.

he just stood there in his trashy motel room with
mismatched carpet and cheap velvet
paintings on the wall.

flicking his cigarette into his ashtray and
thinking about what it is like to be a fly on
the wall and how much he does not like
all the other contemporary poets.