poetry written in English
just reminds me of
agent orange in Vietnam:
               or the anorexic
   tailoring of some city-state
fashion week -
            twenty girls
     to one Mongolian yak;
it actually sounds as horrid as it sounds...
premature depression of
its users... when old age should be
reserved depression...
    their old age has dementia
reserved for all its worth of accomplishment...
   sadness in youth when old age should receive it...
and dementia in old age when
                youth has nothing demented to give...
only another imitation of Catcher in the Rye
or a David Copperfield -
                   or the faking of cult:
  when old age should deem itself sad,
it's their youth that's sad...
   and its elders demented -
                    because its youth
can't allow old age to fathom sadness of an
all encompassing accomplishment;
                 my excuse is?
   i never ventured into colonialism -
                  i can't, by reason, integrate into
using the tongue completely -
            for i have no tattoo that says:
slave owner no. 10256901 -
              or no ****** guilt at not doing
the better runner from King Fuji-Moochou
   of Ivory Coast selling me to the pink pimple-skinned...
   **** me... it's great not having that sort of guilt
imbued in me grappling with history,
and the first offender: **** Germany as the
prime excuse making me pristine, holy
by comparison... ha ha! as if! Mao killed off
   many more than you care to believe.
                  all i have is Lithuanians telling me:
you ****** us over... while i ask a Lithuanian
girl to kiss me in a pub... and she does...
             oh god... sanctus polonius pseudo israelii.