Hear of the hate I have for these poems
as they arrive, out of the night
wanting the small bowls of my appreciation
as I put out a sheet of paper
and let them piss all over the place.
Let me tell you about the nausea I feel
as I spend the rest of the evening on my knees,
scrubbing the floor of their filth,
finding pieces of their metaphors and similes
jammed between the margins.
Observe my utter contempt for these intruders
as they pick up everything in the house and leave
their resounding rhythms like fingerprints
and their humorous wordplay
like a bad smell in the bathroom of this page.
