Poetry

Bad Poem! Bad Poem! No Treat For You!

(About a 3 minute read)

My poems are my dogs, they love me but
Sometimes they look and don’t obey,
Or chew up the furniture legs,
Then sniff my friend’s crotches
When they escape my leash.

They’re cute that way.

I love them, but I can get upset,
Raise my hand and voice.

“Bad poem! Bad poem!
No treat for you!” I’ll yell.

The neighbors, shocked
That their ears are so big
They can actually hear me
Scream back at me:
“You’re too cruel”, and tell me
How to compose poetry,
As if they’d ever once done it
Themselves.

One old woman
With busy ants for brains
Would even call
The Humane Poetry Society
On me; did it six times
In one week before
Someone in a rage
Torched her house
In the name of Yeats.

In a sense
There are no bad poems,
Just untrained beasts
Begging to please.

Work and re-work them
Then re-work them again.

Then re-work them
Again and again and again.

I say they want
To befriend you,
Do your bidding,
But don’t yet know how.

Then again,
I’ve composed poems
So bad they brought
Their readers in tears
To their knees,
And then chewed on them.

Hard not to put
One of those down.

Everyone
Has their favorite breed.

My least favorite
Are the breeds
That yap like prose
And run around
In circles to 1000
Syllables when 100
Would do.

Poetry should be tight
As a conservative’s wallet,
Should yield up syllables
Grudgingly.

But I know
It’s just a matter
Of taste in the end.

Besides, I’m not stubborn.
It’s just that my taste
Is endorsed by the gods

Who will inflict
Explosive diarrhea
On the prom nights
Of fools that disagree,

Or ought to.

Poetry shows
Are always pretentious,
Ridiculous as men
Comparing dicks
Behind the bushes
When they already know
My three inches
Are the biggest anyway.

In fact, comparisons
Should always be kept
To a necessary minimum:
They are the enemy
Of the new and the strange.

But I know the shows
Will never end —
Though the crowd always
Snickers, shakes their heads,
And pretends they’ve never done it
Themselves.

Now I have a secret
Men and women usually wait
Their whole lives to hear,
And it took me decades
In Tibet to learn it.

It was the poets you see
Who created the gods,

And that’s why you’ll note
“Dog” and “god”
Are the same word
Spelled backwards,
For all with eyes
To see.

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