**** poetry,
it's the only art worth ******,
rock music rapes
poetry all the time,
it's no surprise,
**** poetry, the war of words
has hardly begun for poetry
to claim a thirsty first of anything,
let alone victory;
it's too horrid too passive,
**** poetry, and mind the dead-buggers
left to cling to the world with epitaphs
and tombstones they
didn't want to be: feed the fishing hook
with maggots on the tip-tail,
i shall say gangrene-tan was the oddity
of those toes resurrected,
resurrected and immediately falling off;
leave the buggers be, entombed and
hardly a twitch left in them left for
decapitated chickens to take over...
nervous after the head lost the torso,
nervous enough to not hyena the graveyard
with a grandfather, nervous enough to
flick the knee-bending switch: ooh ooh ah -
hot because it's one hundred degrees /
hot because it has dry chilli powder to
forget salt... ooh ooh ah.. tongue pinched by
surgical pliers.