Plot, character, setting, and action
should all be established in stride,
not each in a conflicted faction
facing off on an opposing side,
and yet this doddering fool plods about,
left and right and questing so aimlessly,
then squatting down to shit it all out
and wallowing in it shamelessly.
He so loves the smell of his own shit,
thinking his discharge a lavender scent
while he rolls round-and-round in it
like a scatophiliac decadent.
And critics praise his every word
as if he is raising anew the sun,
but it is a balled-up bit of turd—
the story which this dung beetle has spun.

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.