Nothing is ever worth writing a poem about.
A poem written about poetry is a poem damaged,
It is a suicidal process, the act of scraping out ones intestines,
All maroonish and bewildered with a kitchen knife,
That was not even that sharp, the same knife you chopped onions with,
Cutting up the pink factorial rubber of you bustling gut,
This universe of potential with the same pair of scissors,
You used to trim your pubic hair.
It is the amusing act of a politician declaring his wish for peace,
In a country piled with the skulls of dead children,
The wonders of the world they don’t talk about, they don’t vote over,
(Behold! The eighth wonder of the world! Hallelujah Amen)
Unlike the Taj Mahal and the Eifel Tower, holy and untouchable,
It is the vulgar act of chiseling lions out of stone upon monuments,
In a country where lions never roamed, to take the lions out of Africa,
And make a badge out of them for the pale faced wanderers of the world.
It is being caught naked in a public toilet by a stranger,
Who sees the pale yellow piss zigzag from your genitals,
Like watching a child watch a wide eyed cat being fucked by another cat,
Twice its size, its body pulsating, grizzly fur clambering over nervous ivory fur,
It is like sitting on someone’s semen at a bus stop, and then getting on the wrong bus,
That takes you the long way home.
It is like waiting for literature to come save you,
The way they thought feminism would save the rape victims,
That communism would protect the laborers,
It’s like touching yourself, and being told that you’re touching yourself the wrong way,
It’s like biting the corner skin of your fingernail that sticks like a plastic thorn,
But peeling away the sandy ridges of your skin instead,
The part where you can feel you epidermis cringing under your gnawed teeth
It is like writing a poem about how horrid it is to write poems about poetry,
Only to realize that you are now one of them,
The freckled boys and girls with divorced parents,
Who sit in their rooms and play bad electric music,
Creating art for art’s sake,
The perfect little boys and girls,
With rivers in their brains and forests in their hearts,
And razorblades clutched in the tender flesh of their hands.