a poor imitation

you claim the status
of a grizzly poet
street cred
honed in dark alleys
and shooting galleries
on crack cocaine
and cheap wine.

you say you have lived
paid your dues
on park benches
and doss houses,
shacked up with whores
and vampire bitches
who stole your muse.

You extol yourself
as a drinker
a hard-man
a smoker
of last resort
dried leaves
and dust
into a wrinkled rizla.

as you cough your way
through another poem
of self praise
in poor prose
and close another chapter
in the story of you.

you imagine destitution,
wet concrete
and grass pillows.
you concoct starvation
swim in the sensation
but your poems reek
of wealth and privilege.

the savage eye
has not seen you
shit yourself with fear.
you compose a life
found bound between covers
a book written of another man
that doesn’t look like you.

-dave kavanagh

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