Sunday, October 12, 2014

Let’s Give Em’ One

You want a poem?
You gotta be straight up shitin’ me!
You want a poem?
It’s 2014 and ain’t no one looking for that.

You want a poem?
You must be soft between the ears mothafucker.
You want a poem?
Jesus Christ himself can’t help you shit-stain -
you must be the only dumb truck
walking God’s green Earth with that wish!

A smart phone with 63GB
a Lambo with a plug-in hybrid power tran
designer kicks
sex toys and batteries
rock hard abs and 24 inch pythons
Henny and a pound of green bud -
mothafucker I can help you with all this
but you got’s to be patient.

A poem however?
Not happening.

A house in the burbs with a 30-year fixed
season tickets for the Gaints, the A’s, the  Lakers
front row at Wrestle-mania
a blow job from Angelina Jolie
hot lunch form Brad Pitt
Cancun or Cabo
Cruise Ships or cocaine
a wristwatch with a Facebook feed
Midol and Medi-cal
a gift card to Hot Topic or Hollister or any place else in the shopping mall
fuck, just dress me up and get me laid!
What you say?
A poem?
Negative ghost rider.

Come on now, really -
what the fuck you going to do with that . . .

Get an A in your creative writing class?
Clean out the parakeet cage?
Light a camp fire?
Impress a girl that thinks your ugly?

You must be straight dropped on your head  and thrown off a cliff!

A poem, you say?
take your funky Maya Angelou ass the fuck out of here
and don’t let the door hit you from behind
go shit in the woods and wipe your butt with Leaves of Grass
take all of your Neruda and all of the Spanish bulls of the world
and shove em’ where the sun don’t shine
just because you feel less sexually repressed
after reading Ginsberg
doesn't mean a poem
is going to get you some strange
and just because Bukowski wrote with
empty beer bottles and bare knuckles
doesn’t mean
you’re a badass Barfly, too
so stop it, already!

You want a poem?
Here you go douche cup . . .

Pen and paper
I scribble heart felt lines
some other dude is laying pipe in my chick.

Not enough?

Screams of orgasm
his engorged cock pounds her box
the Outlaw book of poetry sits in silent dust on the self.


No, no, no, no . . .
my soul screams on a balcony over looking rush hour traffic!

Fuck it,

You're better off punching the time clock -
see you for cocktails at six
the mall closes at nine -
plenty of time.

You still want a poem after all of that?

Well, you must be
 the last free spirit on Earth
 with a soul left to be saved . . .

and I salute you.

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