modern poetry

It's early on a Sunday morning
and I was thinking,
(as a prelude to the expected
Sunday evening angst)
a poem should be like a brutal
and relentless lashing
at your naked disgusting flesh
and not a soft arcadian bullshit.

That's so over now.
We need a crazy whore on crack,
with a loose tongue.

Fucking scaldic that is.
Not a guy searching for his lover
in the woods,
transfixed by the beauty of the landscape
(which is sometimes appropriate anyway)

And don't get me started about religious poetry,
even when my poems are religious in a way.

A horror museum for conscience
is called for.
Cry yourself to sleep
while masturbating to the bedside gun.

Such is the atmosphere of the age.
Such the crushing weight.
Such the leverage.

Nothing is as weakening as a group of
untalented and unwilling people
working on problems nobody really cares about.

And I’m still not sure what defines you more,
the opportunities you take or the ones you miss.

That's why, never pass the chance
of a good lashing. Till arm's hurt.