Written in a little over a minute, this is something of a continuation from my ramblings on my own politics, which I finished and uploaded a little over ten minutes ago – enjoy, if you will do me such honour, my Flaccid Poetry.
How can I hope,
to litter my poetry
with careful formulations
and images of Anarchy,
when a celebrity I have dreamt of
lies naked on a hotel bed?
When the camera pans
across her skin so pale,
that she looks like a stunning corpse,
like the waitress who pours stale
tea, for me, in a coffee house
on every corner?
When she scowls at me,
and in that scowl I see a smile,
and she asks me if I read a lot,
and I reply yes, forgetting the bile,
which crawls up my throat as I stare
at the bestseller’s list.
The porn which litters those pages,
is as sexless as my celebrity,
as joyless as her recorded sex,
as empty as these words which I string to form poor poetry,
with a plaster around my finger as I type,
and a flaccid organ in my hand.