This Is Not Your Child’s Poem
this is not a pipe, this is not a child’s poem, your child’s poem
although words are strewn, a haphazard collage
no capitalization, except for words that shouldn’t be.
look Mommy, you proclaim to your own country club mother, I’m a poet
and I can smear poop and invite. she shakes her head at you, her child
thirty years existent. while you invite the audience to genuflect
words strewn without logic, a poem
boxcars without couplings, moving into
masturbation nowhere, a noodle, your mother, a penis
is your sister
(Your child’s name is stanza paradigm problematic. no dead poets you think)
this is not your child’s poem
even though you ask
why can’t we all just get along
I don’t see color or this or that
and recite your words while
donning an Afro and pissing rainbows on the page. You child
of starched country club Whiskeypalians, whiter than
Wonder. But this is not your child’s poem
because your child will be untrammeled by age, loving
the moon and the stars
(meanwhile you milk your own mother’s neglect. pain is a salve)
a butter-colored streetlamp
and no narrator flings poop in between words
only the moon and the stars
and the stillness, the sorrows exist on terms they exist on
if only you were your fucking child’s future poem
this is not a pipe, this is a prick
this is poop, this is anything
but your child’s theoretical poem
untrammeled by masturbating sister
words without meaning and glory
(your child will don a beret at two. or is baldness more fun?)
why can’t you become a child
and shoot the narrators who are constructs
shoot them until they release their cynical interpretations of
beautiful words. for this is not a pipe, this is not your future child’s poem
shoot the narrator
and look into a moonlit nightscape
while you conceive that child
through untrammeled jizz, birthing flesh
and mind so cheerful, taking to the expanses of
paper and words expanding and naked and dancing.
Horror Sleaze Trash 