i eat poetry, sleep poetry,
live poetry, think poetry, shit poetry,
do everything like poetry---
it takes a lot of practice to hold this prosthetic pose.
pain is my muse, i can't live without my pain and
can't stop complaining about it, i keep my time by it,
spell it out in hidden verse that's just too deep to inflict your surface with
this virgin is scratching at her hymen,
she'll break it with her fingers and brag to everyone about her
like art in a gas mask,
is this a trench or a bunker? am i fighting or hiding?
let's talk secure rebellion in a circular academic dungeon and defy by numbers,
commit deviant delinquencies according to the lesson plan.
Frost and Dickinson always dreamed of boring high school kids into drawing cartoon tatas and peepees on their folders
Follow these submission guidelines: No offensive material.
No excessive profanity or gratuitous sex.
No graphic violence or misogynist or racist material.
We want works with feeling, but not if you mean it.
We want mannequins faking orgasms posing in non-penetrating positions.
We want anything original and creative,
but only polished, refined thoughts please.
Go to a bookstore or a library and study one of the many available templates.
Have you ever read Auden? Check out Leaves of Grass, it's good suicide fodder.
Have you ever written a haiku? 5-7-5. 5-7-5.
We pay only in contributor copies because poetry just doesn't sell and we can't figure out why.