Burst Spleen Like an Irritated Red Balloon

Spurting Misanthropic Bile On the Walls of this Dim Room

Christ, Odin, how long I gotta hang on this tree? No, I don’t want to hear another poem about your fucking mother. I’m sorry you grew up on the outskirts of hell. Now get over it. Therapy is two doors down; this is poetry. Your confusion is understandable; you are, after all, a shithead, and have had nothing but shitheads for role models your whole life.

No, I don’t dig your bathetic Buddhist rap, or your lame nature crap. Navel gazing might get you to Nirvana; but only cutthroat capitalism will get you to the stars. You get back to Nature, suburban refugee; it’s disease and blood and talons, as far as I can see. You drop out of society; I just want to see your next poem scratched in charcoal on some homemade paper, please.

No, moron, I don’t want to hear any more of your Haikus from hell, your insipid love ditties, your interminable epics. The room rings until the very joints quiver with your cribbed rhymes, the CLUMP CLUMP CLUMP of your hobbled lines, your arthritic hipster rants, your monotone drone going on and on about some damn imagined slight to your greatness, or trumped up reproach to the unbeckoned advances of old men, or your sordid recollections of how Allen Ginsberg blew you in a men’s room once, or listen to you limn the minute swerve of frail, fleeting emotion that is apparently idiosyncratic to your own singular self.

Like I want to listen to some guttersnipe go on and on about his purple bruised past, or a poem cycle that panders to her small circle of murmurers, the same song, week after week, some deplumed parrot squawking – SAME WORDS – DIFFERENT ORDER.

I could fill up a notebook, both sides & the margins, just sitting in the coffeehouse, throwing stones at the monuments to the dead you raise, shattering your plate glass isolation, filling your cup with the shards of broken hearts with no tongues.

(There. I feel much better now.)

** :: snaps fingers hipply :: **
** :: adjusts beret :: **

Dig man, Dig.

A Poem for Dr. Pinky

The night is bleak
My mother: mean
My tears will leak
Alone, I dream.

The night is dark
I’m all alone
Writing Hakius
Like this one, which doesn’t scan or rhyme correctly.

The Buddah’s great
And Nature too!
But Ginsberg never blew me (?!)
This fact is true!

Pity me not
Nor cry for me
But I’m gonna get killed
When this is seen by Dr.P.
Street Poet Fenris

Actually, Dr P. that was a great rant, but…what specifically broght it on? One too many snivelly poem in the coffee house, or was there a particularly bad one that made you snap?


No, I needed something new for the 1st reading we’ve had around here in 3 months.

It’s a riff on my new favorite bad influence, Juvenal. He wrote some stuff in 71 that seems pretty current 1,930 years later.

(Half the charges leveled could apply against my own sweet self, but it was fun to read.)

Dr. Pinky, man,
bustin’ out funky rhymes,
He’s one groovy cat.

Nice rant. With creative powers like that, remind me to keep you on my friends list… :slight_smile: