Fuck you, New York Yankees!
You think you can buy me?
You think you can buy my love
With victory?
With namebrand athletes?
With your Hamburglar-esque stripes?
I long for facial hair, mullets, and pinetar smeared
Housewives...
You are like a rich divorcee
Throwing ponies at your love-starved children.
But ponies are heavy
They will crush your
Biggest fans.
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3 comments:
The pony-tossing-divorcee analogy has been assimilated and will soon be incorporated into my own writing. Now, I must be off to rip shit up.
(I'm totally lying, I'm far too lazy for that kind of stuff. I may just follow your lead and write a poem that rips shit up. Like Carol Ann Duffy. The girls in my lit class have started getting all violent on my ass lately and I blame her. I say we go back to whatever the world was before all this feminism stuff arrived. It's just not worth it if coitus seriously dangers the well-being of my genitals)
Are you ready for it? Here come...more brackets - because, as I stated somewhere else today, I'm fairly certain I think in brackets. Or wait, do you discern between the different types in America? Or are they all parentheses? Hmmm...
(I don't think poetry is really meant to be pretty either. But I also don't think it's meant to rip shit up. The main point is to be as vague as possible and confuse the fuck out of the readers, so that academics can look for a deeper meaning that isn't there. The more abstract it is, the more likely it is to be praised as an incredibly deep, personal, insightful piece of verse.)
If you get in trouble with feminists, just start talking about how much you love Charles Bukowlski. (That always works for me.)
poetry is what you want poetry to be, Mr. Jimi.
You can't argue with that. (unless you're a philosopher)
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