Poem that Refuses to Shoot Itself in the Head —MP Powers

Here I am. Beergut, oyster
sauce on my t-shirt, pantlegs
twisted
into corkscrews.

I am the poem
no one wants.

I have been rejected
from 17 blogzines,
5 of them fledgling,
and not once with anything
but
a lousy-arse
form letter.

All I have been treated
with is apathy, all those smug
& coddled
editor
lemmings
turning their noses up at me
while they sit all day
on social media
exchanging hamburger
GIFS
and jerking each other off.

What do they know about Oliver
Wendell Holmes?
What do they know about anything?

Nothing,
I tell ya.

And yet it never gets easier
reading
those first words: Unfortunately,
this just
isn’t the right fit…

Yeah, yeah.

Why don’t
you
eat
shit?

I don’t give a donkey’s
dick
about your pantywaist
aesthetic.

I am my own aesthetic.
I am the poem that refuses to quit.

Standing in the howling
winds,
my fly unzipped
the wart on my chin
with
3 goodsized
black hairs sprouting
from it.

Try me.

Don’t give up. Ever. MP Powers

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