155. Their Words
by Paul Goodspeed
My words are fumbled.
I mumble my jumbled muddle of middling mediocrity.
My piddling pedantic political poetry,
my petty piddling privileged punditry
pales in proximity to their passionate powerful poignant profundity.
Their words rub me raw with woe and wonder,
love and lugubriousness,
beauty and baleful bathos.
Meanwhile my words are energetic gestures at juvenile justice;
foolish futile fusillades at fearsome Fox News foes.
Their words are deep, dark and dangerous,
doubling me over in moving mellifluous meter and vivacious verbose verse.
My words speak of society and sociology and structures,
of omnipresent all-enveloping oppression.
Their words speak of truth;
of terrible tears and gut-wrenching glory,
of tragedy and terror and transformation,
of horror, humor and of hope.
My words thud in juddering blundering bumbling boisterousness,
vicarious rambuctious revolutionary vindications,
extraneous excessive inexpressive exhortations.
Their words are living livid and lively,
expressive and electric, elegant and elegaic,
mordant and moving and meaningful,
sarcastic and silly and solemn.
My words are stupid, soporific, sophomoric,
self-absorbed sophontic sentences,
tendentious, sententious and pretentious.
Their words are worth writing,
lovely and loving.