This poem wants to be the sweet
and sour: the kind it fancies for itself;
the kind that ends up between the spread legs
of some prestigious lit mag.
It doesn’t want to care about postmodernism
or any literary movement;
it’d rather be likened to a tone-deaf,
chubby girl singing to herself.
It wishes it could operate
within a narrative modality.
Vladimir Ilyich Ulianov!
It pleads it can get me a toe
by three o’clock this afternoon,
with nail polish. If this poem had a dick,
it’d be able to lift the book, Pad.
This poem says the same thing,
but in unique and interesting ways—
it doesn’t mind stealing lines
from Mary Ruefle or The Big Lebowski.
It wishes it could be more violent,
but is still too afraid to cut a bitch.
This poem is thinking of buying a pistol
because of its social awkwardness—
sometimes just holding a loaded gun
makes the poem feel brave.
Even though this poem cried
when its father took it hunting,
made it shoot its first duck.
This poem hasn’t been hunting since,
but is slowly warming up to the idea.
This poem thinks titles are pretentious;
it wishes you to know that it contains
no reference to Thomas De Quincy,
that Thomas De Quincy’s an asshole.
This poem doesn’t give a shit about humanity.
It laughs at burning buildings, it’d slit a throat with ease.
The first time my poem caught a trout,
it severed the fish’s head
instead of bashing it with pliers.
This poem was a misunderstood, bad kid
in grade school, throwing spit wads
at the bulletin board, pouring bleach
in Bucky the Hamster’s water
and crying out loud in class
the following Monday when everyone
found the little rodent dead and bloated.
It had to go to the principal’s office
to explain Bucky’s death.
The poem started to cry when the principal
lifted its shirt and found the bruises.
This poem is jealous of everyone who is normal.
This poem doesn’t care about cheeseburgers
or paradise—it only eats them when it’s drunk.
If it were given a choice, I’m sure this poem
would’ve rather been a scarecrow.
This poem still sleeps with nightlights.
This poem still thinks dinosaurs are cool.
This poem stays up, late at night, watching cartoon re-runs.
This poem is as cheesy as a bag of empty Cheetoes.
This poem is a fat ass in pajamas, living in its mother’s basement.
It doesn’t care it’ll never amount to anything.
It just wants to sleep in and eat
a few bowls of Cap’n Crunch.
It doesn’t shower regularly.
It doesn’t get out that often.
It’s kind of like the uninvited guest
peeling the oranges you and your girlfriend
intended to eat.
Ungrateful little swine.
It does nothing for me.
Front page image by Meriwinkle.