Fake poets
sit on mortarboards
that no longer fit their heads.
Fake poets
get their MFAs
by Mother Fucking Accident.
Fake poets
perpetuate the myth
that the New Yorker somehow selects
only the finest representations of the poetic art
and embalms it with holy reverence
between pages of golden mockingbird tongues
and the pearls of a swine.
Fake poets
hold up lists of publications,
present a back for patting
and a hand for speaking to.
Fake poets
have plasticised their existence
and have become the silicon tits of the writing world.
Pointing skyward, they have no connection
to the flesh. Nothing can deflate them:
they keep the pricks to themselves.
sit on mortarboards
that no longer fit their heads.
Fake poets
get their MFAs
by Mother Fucking Accident.
Fake poets
perpetuate the myth
that the New Yorker somehow selects
only the finest representations of the poetic art
and embalms it with holy reverence
between pages of golden mockingbird tongues
and the pearls of a swine.
Fake poets
hold up lists of publications,
present a back for patting
and a hand for speaking to.
Fake poets
have plasticised their existence
and have become the silicon tits of the writing world.
Pointing skyward, they have no connection
to the flesh. Nothing can deflate them:
they keep the pricks to themselves.
It could be worse