by Michael Lee Johnson

I warned you darts with advise
strong words tripping over emotions
like an imbecile -
so you think you’re Leonard Cohen,
loving some naked Nancy in a cluttered
matchbox apartment overlooking
European culture simulated,
above some obscure, narrow
Montreal street?
For your information,
straight poetics from insanities Almanac,
Leonard Cohen died years ago
in a twisted pickle poem he
entitled “Narcissism.”
Do you and your welfare lover
desire to be the second generation,
deceased , unnoticed, unheard of,
unwarranted for failure artists
inside this thin, onion-skinned wall
dingy with your dreams?
I warned you darts with advise,
tapering off with your impotence.

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