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.)