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I Don't Know Why People Still Read These Things


by P.R. Mercado


   POETRY IS DEGENERACY
    IS A DISGUSTING HABIT
IS YOUR MOTHER IN BIRTH PANGS
HER CUNT ABLAZE
   AND YOUR BALDNESS
EMERGES 
    FROM BETWEEN HER LEGS
AND FOR A MOMENT
         SHE IS AN ANIMAL WITH TWO HEADS
                       FROM BOTH ENDS
       A COMICAL CREATURE      A JOKE
              AND THEN LIKE A TURD
                           YOU ARE EXPELLED

    FUCK WORDS YOU CANNOT EAT THEM
                      FUCK POETS YOU CANNOT EAT THEM
   WE SHOULD EAT THEM THE WORLD IS HUNGRY
                       GET A JOB GET A JOB GET A JOB
               RIMBAUD WAS THE ONLY USEFUL POET
        KICKED THE TIC EARLY
     AFTER SCREWING THAT DIRTY OLD MAN VERLAINE
                      BECAME A FOREMAN AT A QUARRY
DEALT WEAPONS & COFFEE
              DIED OF CANCER

                  MY FRIEND THE OTHER DAY SAID
         I DON'T TALK ABOUT POETRY
                      IT IS DEEP WITHIN US
             AN URGE LIKE WHAT YOU FEEL
                      WHEN YOU ARE HUNGRY
OR HORNY
             OR NEED TO PISS

    I SAID FUCK YOU PETTY BOURGEOIS DEGENERATE
         FUCK YOU   GILDED PIECE OF SHIT 
                  POEMS AREN'T MAGIC
       AREN'T TRANSCENDENT AREN'T SPECIAL
              YOU ARE THE REASON
                      POETRY HAS BECOME A DISEASE

DIE IN A FIRE
           
                    POETRY SEEPS IN US
         RAIN THROUGH CRACKS IN THE CONCRETE
              AT NIGHT
                       AND IN THE MORNING
         WE FIND OURSELVES TORN OPEN
               BY WATER INTO ICE
                           BARER THAN BEFORE
      THAN EVEN WHEN YOU WERE A TWO-HEADED FREAK

                    POETRY ENTERS US     A VIRUS
             AND WE MUST CLEANSE OURSELVES
                                  BY EXPELLING IT
              THROUGH PROJECTILE VOMIT    
DIARRHEA
                            IT IS A PLAGUE
   
                       AND I SAID      PEOPLE LIKE YOU
            GLORIFY THIS DISEASE AS HUMAN NATURE
         HE WHO DOES NOT UNDERSTAND
                            IS A SUBHUMAN PHILISTINE SHIT
            GET A JOB GET A JOB GET A JOB 
MAKE LIKE RIMBAUD
GO TO PARIS & GET A JOB

                             WE THE SICK 
               DECLARE OUR DISEASE
                  UNCLEAN! UNCLEAN! UNCLEAN!
      AND WE LAMENT AND CRY AND SPEAK
                         IN OUR GURGLING AND WEEPING

             AND YOU      PURIST SCUM
           VILE   ARISTOCRATS
                   ENNOBLE YOURSELF ALL YOU LIKE
        FOR THE DISEASE CONSUMES YOU TOO
                             AND AS YOU RAISE YOUR CHIN
          BECAUSE YOUR ANUS DRIPS WITH 
MUCK AND BLOOD
                 CALLING IT YOUR BIRTHRIGHT
                       AND COLLECTING IT IN A JAR
PASSING IT AROUND AS A DRINK
  DURING YOUR RITUALS OF PERVERSION
IN MEMORY OF MOLOCH, WHOSE MIND
IS PURE MACHINERY

              WE LAMENT THE LOSS OF HUMANNESS
                      TO THE VICTOR CALLED POETRY
          WHOSE GREEN HAIR AND HORSE
                                TORE US TO DESIRE
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