Forewarning: This poem is crude and gratuitous, which is only fitting because the target of its weaponization is a glorified greeting-card poet whose mass appeal is as enigmatic as it is undeserved.  Anyway, it is crude and gratuitous…

 

Your poetry dribbles impotently like
cum drops from the spent lips
of a limp dick,
the semen dead before it hits the
perfumed air
of the two-star strip club
on the bad side of town,
landing on the fuzzy, faux-wool floor
of the champagne room
while you gaze at yourself
shamelessly
through the shattered glass of a
mirrored ceiling,
your
mustachioed anonymous mask
bearded with the glitter-strewn
merkin
of the “social media influencer”
crab-walking at an awkward angle
to take a duck-faced selfie
with your lips pressed firmly
against her freshly waxed asshole
while dubstep booms blandly in the background
like the digitized cheers of all those
two-bit, two-byte sycophants
online
who praise your premature
prostate.
But I know the false
expectations
of your reputation,
and they culminate into nothing more than a
stillborn fetus
thrown out into the
back-alley dumpster
as Candy checks her sticky inner thigh
for the cancerous birthmark
that might give you a fucking clue.
If only there was a cultural
prophylactic
against these poetry trends
rather than these disastrous
post-coital pull-out strategies
you employ,
then maybe there would be less
partially-aborted poetry
rotting in the
Jungian landfills
of our collective consciousness.