The crap poet
writes a crap poem
about her weak love
for a weak man,
and it takes her
a week to write.
"Perhaps some mythological references," she thinks, distractedly, choking on smuggled French cigarettes.
"Perhaps adherence to a form no one gives a framed, numbered, limited edition shit about," she muses, head lolling in the oven, dramatically.
My love, &etc, she begins.
The next line has to do with the ovaries of cetaceans,
and the next devolves into impenetrable multisyllabic gobbledy-goop.
It wins an award.
The crap poet goes on to write an entire volume in which
all the line breaks follow prepositions,
and articles are entirely absent.
Arc de Triomphe in
salmonella kisses for
donkey-faced driver named Despair.
This shit wins a Pulitzer.
All hail the crap poet!
She blogs a free verse broadside twenty-eight miles wide
and ten feet tall.
It takes her five hundred followers two and a half seconds
to skim carefully down it all.
"Brilliant! Brilliant!" they cry.
Crap poet soar!
Crap poet shine!
Within the year she is declared
for dverse open link #64, hosted by the preternaturally talented Hedgewitch, a.k.a. my BFF!