Poem That Refuses to Shoot Itself in the Head
Here I am. Gray of temple, oyster
sauce on my t-shirt, pantlegs
twisted
into corkscrews.
I am the poem no one wants.
I have been rejected
from 9 blogzines,
5 of them fledgling,
and not once with anything
but a lousy-arse
form letter.
Apathy is all I get
from these dumbass milksopping toadstool
editors
who wallow all day
in their social media purgatories
bloated with self-importance
pretending to be authentic
to be rebellious
to be mustard-keen arbiters of style and taste
and behavior as they exchange
movie GIFS
and wipe the communal
butt.
What do they know about
poetry?
What do they know about
anything?
Nothing,
I tell ya.
And yet it never gets easy
reading
those first words: Unfortunately,
this just
isn’t the right fit…
Yeah, yeah.
Why don’t
you
eat
shit?
I don’t give a fat rat’s
cock
about your pantywaist
aesthetic.
I am my own aesthetic.
I am the poem that refuses to quit.
Try me.
Horror Sleaze Trash 