MASS SPECTATOR POETRY
I demand to speak to the manager
Someone please explain to me
Why I can’t feed children gasoline
It’s not as if I spilled any
On your new car or my pressed suit
Get ready boys its gonna be a full house tonight
Did every one remember to hide their weapons
I’m going to go watch everything from my little box
I am thoroughly convinced this poet will break like no other
We will bury gold in these seats for centuries to come
First person that stops sharpening his or her sword is fired
Or dead Forgive me did I offer you a drink
It was the performance of a lifetime
Everyone cheered in hysterics as his head tumbled off the stage
I’M NOT A POET. I’M A PAINTER AND/OR A POLITICIAN
Caking and layering on the insufferable excess of bound bodies between pages.
Acrylic your wounds you premadonna poet forsaken.
Visually bankrupt cosmetically corrupt fledgling of fundamental feelings in stages.
Is this a poem or this a painting.
Trade in your hammer for a chisel or a sickle.
Because this shit is not water soluble.
Painted smiles do not wash well off the podium.
I talk in this tone because I want you to like me.
This is no longer open to interpretation.
The picture no longer fits the frame.
This is why I should of been an actor.
Instead I mispronounce the names of the dead.
Angela mayou and Whit waltman have always been two of my favorites.
Do I sound convincing?