your poetry is the
timid surgeon's
blade

your brainwashed disfigured filth
posing as poetry, glitter sprinkled
over horse ****

parasitic eager beavers
rattling off hollow sanitary words
from suburban armchairs

when you speak of passion...
I want the ivory joy
of licking teeth in black
cold nights of February
grabbing fistfuls of flesh
and desire

not your stiff ******* advertisement,
marketing zombie climaxes and red roses
of compulsion

when you speak of loss...
I want the acrid smell of burnt
hair, a scene of cinder and ashes,
a house of dreams smoked
by the arsons of addiction
and stupidity

not your camouflaged metaphors
of two dollar sunrises and legislated
loneliness, echoing off the empty walls
of narcissism

when you speak of hate...
I want cold bacon grease and blood
stuck to my tongue and dripping from
my mouth, to become a carnivore of ******
and liberated violence

not your confused assault
of cheap mouthwashed words
spat in basins of shallow
*******

ah, **** it,
write what you will
but give more
poetry should