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the lack of nonsense
takes over
and the bad poetry
turns less bad

But the situation
is only temporary
and soon
the badness is back
and we are all

is a warm bad poem
full of metaphors
that only work on Tuesdays
and sly allusions
to ground squirrels

Punch me in the face
bad poetry
punch me in the face
with love
and joy
you magnificent prude


This poem is nonsense
because it is not a poem
and it lies about itself
and its name is Bob
and it will thank you for not forgetting that
since if you do
it will have no identity
no purpose
and will be forced to go back to waiting tables
though it will really be dead inside

Poem Poem

This is a poem poem
which is better than a prose poem
and more subtle than a book poem
thought not than a poem book
and you should keep reading it
because you like poem poems
and cannot escape
your destiny


She walks in beauty like the night
whatever that means
as the night cannot walk
and is mostly just full of mean little people doing terrible things
so the simile sounds clever at first
but doesn’t stand up under scrutiny
yet by all means
let’s turn it into a poem
and force it on all the hapless undergraduates
who don’t really know
what a simile is anyway


My need not to write a poem
has created
a state of agony
caused by poetry
the poanogy flows through my brain
thumps through my heart
spontaneously generates CAPITAL LETTERS through my gizzard
and no one understands the poagony
except other poagonists
none of whom
have written as many agonised poems
as I have