Cheap Feels

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
through the shattered glass of a
mirrored ceiling,
mustachioed anonymous mask
bearded with the glitter-strewn
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
who praise your premature
But I know the false
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
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.


Mediocrity is a fast-catching flame
upon the cultural commonwealth,
each smoke signal a puffed-up name
that is ruinous for public health.
The fire has no flash or glow
as people circle around it in haste;
it has no inspiration or passion, so
it gnaws hungrily, but without taste.
Meanwhile I ready the water hose
and piss all over the dumpster fire,
dismayed at the carnage and those
who wallow in the ashes of the pyre.