STOP! Writing Poetry?


I have an old prejudice
Against the stench-
A plastic keyboard
Abandons on my fingers.

Words stretch
To my knuckles.
I dispose of gases
Situated in my diarthrodial joints
By pretending the words
Are puny handcuffs.
A ratchet bone clicks vowels-
To explain a desire for cadence.
(Because I am a poet.
Dammit. Not a criminal)

And polymers designed
To accommodate a proper insignia
Bore me of their purpose.

For ink!
Is a bastard child.

Singing a Death Rattle
To Jane and John Doe.

Facilitating a
Click, Click, Click…
Confusing finger taps
For exploding artillery.

Bourgeois antics
Are a pure form
Of the Home-Keys.
And comfort.
(Don’t forget comfort)

I explain suicide
To sentence structure.
Carbon black bleeds
From lettering.
Selah vie
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