The Night I Killed Poetry
I took poetry
and its pretentious tight backside,
bent it over,
and let the spankings fly,
fucked it doggy style
until its cheeks were red with pain,
bleeding out passion,
erasing all formalities.
I stole its metaphors,
alliterations, allusions and illusions.
I broke the windows of its past,
and while professors and students looked on,
lined up to publish verse
in literary journals and magazines,
I ran off into the night
and threw all those literary tools
into the sewer.
I flushed big fancy words and thesauruses,
French and Latin phrases,
translations and fancy lines,
all lace and velvet;
I flushed them all right down the fucking toilet
where they belong.
And I was left with
fucks I just don’t give anymore,
middle fingers and rock hard cocks,
sex, drugs and rock and roll,
cliches and bad words,
angry blunt and shattering fists,
punk rock and alternative angst,
confessions of heartbreak,
life and love and death,
all bleeding out from the page and voice
for your fucking listening enjoyment.