John Kojak

Untitled (Of Course)

Modern poets are sissies,
limp quilled English majors
scratching flowers and
giving blowjobs to cats

Where is our Keats, our Eliot, our E.E.C.
Who’s minding the wheel?
Where’s Charles Fucking Bukowski
There aren’t five good lines anywhere

So cancel your subscriptions,
it’s all masturbation anyway
You want real? Get drunk,
crawl puking through an alley
Go fuck somebody—anybody!
But don’t read modern poetry

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