The poets are impotent

Politics
Without Regard
Without Terror
We look upon a passing with convenience.
With dying eyes
We grew young in the sun.
What we lack in progress we make up for in
Entreaties, we delight in fraud.
The poets are impotent.

I killed a man for being simple,
My hero fell, stumbled and burst as a beetle between two stones,
Upon his enemies and he drank their blood and he fucked their women
and he fucked their children.

So the bored and pale
Starve for their sake
The meager do.
The walls are not empty as the idiot who knows who he is.

So paint the walls
Or stain the sky
No- write the words you've always wanted to write down.

Just figured I would share this poem by Henry Hedgins. I think it is very applicable to the posts I've been making.