Poets are weird, it’s true, and they
smell funny. Have you ever eaten
a meal with a poet? It’s hard to keep
your food down. Poets don’t wait
until something’s dead to eat it.
Poets don’t wait until a person’s dead
to write nasty things about him,
her husband, his wife, their
Poets have horrible halitosis,
do not try to kiss one,
you’ll vomit meaningless but well-arranged
paragraphs. Poets aren’t wise, though
they’ll make you think they know things
they don’t, they’ll make you think you know
nothing but they do, know things that is,
like the name of the person who discovered
that desire is a language that was first spoken
in France. Don’t trust poets, they’ll
tell you you’re on fire when you’re not,
they’ll tell you you’re not on fire when you are,
they’ll tell you to dial 999 for an emergency
even though you’re nowhere near England.
Poets wash their hands with ice, the chilling effect
cleanses them, clears their minds so they can focus
on ways to hurt you, so they can devise
strategies to make you feel ashamed
of your misshapen heads and disgusting bodies.
Poets are cruel, sarcastic, masters of
inhumane irony. They love to lift you up only to
let you fall, hopelessly, to solid ground like
stones from the top of a mountain.
They love to end their poems in ways
that will ultimately disappoint you.