Reasons Poetry Sucks

• The influence of pornography extends to poetry, whose genitals are shorn these days to appear like dandleable children.
• I had the strangest dream I was a good person.
  Step #3: Make amends to anyone I've ever harmed.
  I called the relatives of the people I'd murdered by not being what they expected.
  They all said, "What is this some kind of sick joke????"
  And they cried and cried and puked grief all over the receiver
  I'd given them to hear the worst.
• Pornography outgrosses every other entertainment industry in America combined.  Poetry, a notoriously non-profitable art form, should not be confused & thought to be non-pornographic & therefore non-profitable.  Poetry no longer entertains by virtue of being a pinnacle of pornography--the safest, tested, non-viral cum in the world.
• Little but sweat sets yr favorite tyrant free.
• Poetry can't charge yr cellphone for it is a bad onion of bland omens, probably soaked, these fashionable compilatorily depilatory days, in the alcohol of archiving.  Language works like a skillet of phone-chargers as well as it works like work or anything else with no matter but mattering.
• Making up at certain points is better than making out.  Q:  What does poetry make up these days?  A:  Concepts 5th graders have but are too bored by to say.
• Poetry stuck it in.  Came early & felt the need to run.  Shall I feel lonely as a broken frame in unshorn desire?  Is this poetry?  Just noise?  Maybe all & ever.  Tomorrow's a pushpin in extremis.  The exact blade sharply dressed in gunk must be taken out from the safe distance in which an expert must be hired to snipe.
• "Do not mistake my appetite for apathy!"--some dude in Kenneth Branagh's "Thor."
• Poetry isn't active enough to suck.  Pull yr genitals out in the face of poetry and you find only a roullette-screen, an image of a suckface scrolling past you.
• Poetry is DEET-free natural insect repellent, sweat proof & waterproof.  With a pleasant aroma.  Caution: keep out of reach of children, the 'poets' say.
• Poetry-paintings coiffed hair is stuck in the ascending 90s.  For only the rough hand does it move.  The other hands withdraw, gently pricked, into a feigned, sleepy satiety.  The gel gets everywhere, and 2 of the oldest arts are simply that--boy bands grown arthritic in the hair and bones and every song calculated to please mostly.  I have a rotgut butthole full of pollen & ask you all to enter as caffeinated bees.  What's more to say?  Everything.  Everything for nothing happens, by continuing.
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