All That's Plastic Never Rots

 
Because poetry
was sucking its own cock
I bedroom bullied
Miss Posh Pants
deliberately stooping low
as she moaned gospels
over the trash

Words
always outsmart poverty
I told her
ending empires
and starting wars
chasing greed
around the block

And then I wondered
is it better
to write poems
about fucking
with the lights out
when people get too hot

Words couldn't
spank God's ass
she said
Get yourself to the store
All your literary roughing and puffing
just trashed
the kitchen clock