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.