I’m done with depressing, self-indulgent poets.
I’m fed up with flowery prose and smooth script.
And all alliteration annoys me.
Symbolism sickens me.
Daft. “dark delving into the depths of the soul . . .”
Blah ,blah, blah.
And I’m frustrated with their followers.
Pointless poet groupies.
The other day some woman was telling me
how much better room temperature water is for
you than cold water
and all I could think was,
Yep, and kale is better for you than cigarettes
What’s your fucking point?
Do people line up to pay with their lives for kale or lukewarm water?
Or do they want some ice in a glass and a Marlboro hanging out of their mouths?
But this woman probably loves kale.
And spirulina drinks,
And crying over some self-indulgent poem
Or some man wrote who is “just magical”.
Maybe she takes pictures of butterfly wings;
Takes long walks on the beach
But only with a hat and sunscreen
And lukewarm water.
Still in six months
Even though she stopped smoking cigarettes three years ago
And ate kale.