The Splendor of Your Bull****
Look, dude, poetically speaking
Or not, your bull**** does not
Impress me--no matter how you say it--
Briefly or otherwise; just know
That I am here to have fun, that's all--
No matter what you think of my
Use of language--whether drunk or sober--
I express what's on my mind--
And I don't need to throw chairs
Or tables, or toilet seats into some
Clever verses, calling out for some
Panspermic universe; life is
Mysterious enough, you know,
And you can call me an idiot, et cetera,
Et cetera, and that's just fine with me--
For I enjoy my freedom from
Your cerebral masturbation,
Your enjambments and your
Arbitrary breath stops--
Doo me, shooby-doo-bee, doo-bop...
No, I don't need your definition
Of what's good poetry and what's
Self-indulgent neophyte verse--
Your bull**** doesn't matter in the least--
No matter how many times you
Revise it, over and over and over...
It all adds up to nothing in the end--
The sofas, the chairs, the pillows,
That jar of mayonnaise that you left
Open for that fly to snack on,
Your stupid underwear, and your
Girlfriend who left you for a more
Good-looking writer, who knows
How to play guitar--it's all irrelevant--
Doo me, shooby-doo-bee, doo-bop, doo-hop...
And you will talk about it
Like some poetic zit on your butt,
That you discovered while showering
And composing your latest
Masterpiece at 4 a.m.,
Looking for that light at the end
Of the tunnel...
But there was nothing but cold coffee,
Dry toast, and an empty bed,
That was too small for your
Giant ego.
June 21, 2008
--Alexander Shaumyan
http://www.shaumyan.com
|
