So I'm in this poetry workshop, right? Total B-sh!t, right? Yeah, you know? So I bring in my latest heartsong, and the blind fu(&ers can't see past the ends of their own poses, you know? I mean, I'm pounding out raw nerves, and all they have to send back is lame MAMA-TOLD-ME-TO-WASH-MY-HANDS propriety, you know? Sometimes, I mean, God!I sing from the core of my being, yeah? No one tells me who I am, dammit! If I say that "Death relished my Dad," then that's what fu(&ing Death did to my Dad! Relished him! Damned fresh, that is, but not one of these EMPLOYEES-OF-THE-MONTH knows the first thing about fresh, yeah? They sit in a censor-circle every Wednesday night, waiting to SH!T on freshness, you know? They open their torture chests, drag out the usual IMPLEMENTS-OF-RESTRAINT: Rhythm, Meter, Purpose, Comprehendability, and they beat me with them for hours; gotta satisfy that sadism until somebody gets hurt. S. O. S. (SAME OPRESSIVE SH!T)
Ooh, real nice brain-bling, Professor Predictable, yeah? I'm going to haul out my dusty collection of factoids for you to choke on, you know? Go FU(& yourself! Take it back to the prison-house, turnkey! I know that "God's flesh hangs loose on a coathanger, like my sister's vulva," and I'm going to throw off your INTIMIDATION-JACKET to tell the world about it, right? I mean, right?
And . . . scene. Welcome to the world of "contemporary poetry," ladies and gentlemen, where rhyme and meter are parents who just don't understand, and historical or literary allusions are the tools of the fascist elite. Lord help me. Help me resist the temptation to go emo-stomping.
