Cliché Poem To A Poet Poem

Write from your soul.
Eventually your soul will start writing
from you.

If you do not have a soul, don’t worry.
Find the most masculine muscular man closest to you,
kiss him square on the lips.
After he beats your ass,
call your mother and tell her to write everything you say down.

Congratulations, you got your first poem.

For God’s sake don’t stop there.
Whatever you do don’t listen to your teachers.
That is why they are teachers,
they don’t know shit
so they don’t know you.

The real poets are poets.
You won’t meet them until you become one. 
Until then hang out in the forests, the alleyways, the wrinkled faces,
go fishing for birds, feed your stomach clouds, rip dollar bills off trees,
play football for the coach, study trashcans, and live in a yellow submarine.
Hang around pretentious professors pretending you are incredibly deep
while making fun of yourself out loud in front of their family’s God.

You are confused.
Life is war to you.
That is perfect.
No one understands you.
Great, you don’t understand yourself.

All you need to know is you don’t need to know.
Keep loving, keep fucking, keep sucking,
keep living, keep giving, keep laughing!
Most of all keep writing.

Realize the best poems are written by the air in the tragic part of the night,
by the waves of the ocean, through the minds of children, by the Beatles,
and on the Drive Thru menu at McDonalds.

See everyone as a poem, write them.
If you find they think you are fucking crazy…
take it as a complement.
hat means you are on the path to greatness.

If you are not receiving the love you desire,
if you are finding yourself mediocre and bitter,
eating your way into winter.
Don’t kill yourself.
Smoke weed by the fire.
Take your pen to a book store.
Change the titles around.
Make a beautiful stoned hilarious poem of it.
Laugh at your poetry.

If that doesn’t work, find a person in a wheelchair.
See the overwhelming beauty in their preciousness.
Follow them until you have written fifty poems.

Once you got your poems congratulate yourself
invite your friends to a coffee shop to listen to you read them.
When no one shows up
read them to the empty seats
like Martin Luther King Jr. speech. 

Now walk out of the room like Lou Reed.

You are doing perfect.
Now it is time to give your poems to everyone you can.

I am talking parents, gas station employees, the thunder, the lightening
I am talking hot chicks, famous fuckers, guilty prisoners, rising rivers.

Most importantly find the highest esteemed literary journals.
Send your poems there with a letter to the editor
explaining how every poem you write is because you want to fuck his son.

When you receive the rejection letter glue it to the refrigerator,
buy yourself roses.

You have passed with flying colors!
Now it is time to find a lover.
Someone fifty times more fucked up than you are.
Someone who knows from the start the joke is on you.
Someone who can shit out your heart without ever tasting it.
After she fucks all your friends lay in the darkness for two straight weeks.

When you come out you will be broke, empty, talking shit to intimate objects
and exactly where you need to be ready to face the next demon head on.
For this part of the journey you will need the fungus that grows off cow shit.
Don’t be scared it is like pussy don’t think about the taste just let it become you.

The feeling you are getting
like there is more to life than you could imagine
yet less then you could ever comprehend.
Write that feeling down,
that feeling is the place to be.

Become the grass write about how grateful you feel to be walked on.
Become the wind write about how grateful you feel to kiss a tree.
Become the demon within write about how grateful you are to die.
Become the human being write about how grateful you are to ask why.

Kiss the ground, fondle the sky, you are ready to love everything.
Now you understand the real reason you chose to be a poet.
It is a quick nonstop route to your spirit.
Now let everything be beautiful.
Speak it, feel it, write it, live it.
You are apart of everything.
Nothing else matters.

I love you, young poet.
Take my advice or don’t.
I don’t give a fuck, either way.
It is your life.
Live it however you like.
I love your life regardless.
All roads lead to where no roads can go.

Justin Blackburn, “Farting Fire”
Download “Farting Fire” here… it is ten dollars.

Farting Fire Cover