Here you are. Sitting on my couch.
Dead after all these long years. Watch
as your finger falls off. Black blood rolls gently
from your ear joining the pool under your ass.
This is a black mass and your attendance is required.
The reliquary is obvious, invisible and violet. The tendonitis
is metaphysical and transubstantial. Life is obscene and
criminal. You should never die sitting upright
damn it light me with your smile. But there you are.
You should never have to die on a snowy winter's eve
slammed into a tree with a steering column up your throat.
But there you are taking the low road. Inevitable.
Superliminal yet invisible. Sitting on the couch. Dead.
You should never die because someone told you
to skip the medication. But there you are. You
should never die because the gun is there and nothing is
fair. But there you are. Be here now
my ass. This is the bosonic joist. The ultimate
heist. We were never here.

P.S. No one ever listened.


Dear Poet:

You are a complete fuckwadded blog-sucking idiot.

Narcissistic subgenius.

How about pus-stained brillo swab?

Does that one fit?

Now do you understand?

Oh, right.

Poets like you.

But guess what?

Poetry hates you.

When poetry comes to town, it sees you and turns the other way.

And here's my take on poetic seduction:

Fuck you.

Copyright this, my pit bull. Bullshit.

Just in case you missed that: fuck you.

Abusive? Abusive of what? Your overinflated ego? Your collection of progressive march pins? The skid mark you left behind in the public facilities? The minorities who "happen to" be considered by you as your friends when you need a trophy of your forward-thinkingness? Your embracing of meaningless "muscular language" or formal tropes full of gas?

Write something good.

Or get off the pot.

Forget yourself and poetry will follow.