Monday, May 22, 2017

Obese Minds

Fuck their poetry
Trite so-called poets
Humble outside
Pure ego in
Mountains of unnecessary pages
Boring
Contrived inside and out
A fashion statement
Nothing to satisfy my canines
I'd rather be reading
This book of dying Plath
Masturbation ejaculating puffs of air
Farting and frumping
Withered away
Pale and dry
Langston would spit
Writing words with empty pens
I gave them ten seconds to grab me
No, okay, ten more
Scrolling, scrolling, scrolling
Interesting use of white space
If that's your thing
The result is manufactured
Snowbirds drowning in the desert
Weak hands without a callous
Soft hands and soft will
A popularity show
If it was on paper
I would tear it to pieces
Set in on fire
And piss on the ash
Instead, I write a poem
But I am neither poet nor writer
And nor are they
Sad vampires
Bridges crumbling
They will stab each other in the asses
As soon as she senses a threat
It is their way
More poetic than their poems
No one reads words these days
It's an idiot pursuit
They care more about the pennies
They hate thoughts
A theater of psychosis
Delusions of chaos
A novel of words
Filled with blank pages
Filling pages like their mouths
If Bradbury knew
451 degrees to it all
They put the art in fart
And the ake in fake
The blood-sucking tic in plastic
Yes, [sic] and sick
There's no need for a spectacle
But that's all they look for in words
Sloppy and bloated words
I have their lies on tape
A new maxim
Those that can't do become critics
This is not even half the story
Their poetry
Classic white-on-white appropriation
Stop reading this poem
Bloated hounds
A sinking showboat
Never left the kiddie pool
Glorified collectives
AA meetings without the addiction
Only addiction to the self
As a child she had aspirations
To become a suicidal heroin junkie
As a man he clings
To delusions of leadership
Obese minds create obese bodies
There's no character to assassinate
Merely their confabulations
A righteous movement
Sitting on a couch
They are not looking for friends
They are looking for followers
Splicing together fragments of feces
Dangling from their chins
Frame by frame 
Frame
by
Frame
Line
by
Line


                      As usual, I call bullshit  

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