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You got us, trolls. We’re the unhappy few

with sub-par brains. We got no savvy. Our


tribes of scribes? Dim-witted. Our no flow crew?

Sucka MCs. Our erotic lives? Sour


grapes. All that you accuse us of is true.

This is the safe way out. “Poet is Priest,”


Ginsberg cried. But trolls got no god. They spew

hate. They laugh when we take the bait. “Artiste,”


they sneer. “Poseur.” All that grief, misery

and fear that drives us means nothing to them.


Ire we’re seen, dead we’re raised, gods who return

for our love: all proof of our lunacy.


We’re fools, drunkards, dullards who think mayhem

is art, who think it means something to burn.