I feel deeply guilty for making dumb conflations
Of myself. Stop saying you’re a good person, fatty,
I don’t know any good people. What do you do
But smile in front of people? Poetry is full of shit,
Full of expectations of poets being good people.
Poetry is full of good people in a super bullshit way.
I think it is offensive when people see themselves,
See themselves as as incapable of awful violence,
Incapable of sticking hot needles into pink ants.
I think it is offensive when people don’t think
They could be the person violating on TV. We’re all
Violent. I stab my anus with a knife like I’m
I lie complexly in all of my verses like I’m
I’m deeply stupid, stupid in an overly contorted way.
Theory and stupidity are ruining my poetry’s lyrical
Possibilities, ruining it so it doesn’t sound smarmy,
Privileged like a monotonous pattern of light sounds,
Privileged and full of words like carapace. Privileged,
And this poetry is too, is a kind of escape, a hatch,
But maybe I can be a bit less pure as I take this selfie,
And maybe poetry doesn’t just want deaf people to stop
Of this poem’s mouth. I can’t even bring myself to write
Others into my poetry because I don’t want to force it,
Force it, like objectivity, onto their lost perspective,
To give them a voice, because most monsters have poetry,
Because we don’t bother to read so many poetries,
Because we think we’re better than the fat foam.
But I’m fat and I’m a horrible person like everyone.
But like everyone I only read a small slice of pie,
Over and over, until I become fat, and I feel guilty
Of eating too much of the same shitty poetry. Please,
If you’re fat and dying and like everyone, look beyond
What you call “taste.” Stick your face in my fat shit.
Stick your face in my womb and motorboat me.
Stick your face in mine gorgeously like a stick in my face.
Stick your face in the ditch of some weird verse
That’s not mine and imagine my fat arousing you, fatty.