Shut Up

I’m sick of all you academy shits
whittling away at the dysfunctional limb
as if you were politicians and I
spoke softly with a small stick.

Poetry is not medicine; you cannot stitch it
into submission. It is not fission;
your bomb will not incinerate, it will
shit itself and slip into oblivion.

I disdain you. I spit on you.
You have no pith—you’re more like a twinkie
than timber. Here on out I will pinch
this blister and quit your conformity.


~05/09