Poetry Licks Ass

April is National Poetry Month.  Yes, you read that right.  Since it is the end of April now, I guess this post is a little late.  But who cares, because poetry sucks fucking ass.

Really, poetry bites. 

I don’t know why poetry sucks so bad.  I mean, I like music, and music is pretty much poetry that somebody sings.  So why is it that, when somebody doesn’t sing poetry, it sucks so much? 

Years ago, poetry was so popular in America that poets you have never even heard of got incredibly rich.  Like Walt Mason, known as “Uncle Walt,” of Emporia, Kansas, was one of the richest writers in the world around World War I.  He wrote poetry for newspapers.  And James Whitcomb Riley of Greenfield, Indiana, who was also one of the wealthiest writers of his time.  Get this: he made most of his money by reciting his poetry in theatres and halls for the cost of admission.  Can you fucking believe it?  What the fuck was wrong with people in those days?

Yet, why did I pay ten bucks for this?

He drinks a whisky drink.
He drinks a vodka drink.
He drinks a lager drink.
He drinks a cider drink.
He sings the songs that remind him of the good times.
He sings the songs that remind him of the better times.
Don’t cry for me next door neighbor….
  — Chumbawumba from Tubthumping

See.  If you just read that without the music, it sucks ass.

I try to be a creative kind of dude.  I write, I draw, I invent new menstrual devices.  But I have never been into poetry.  It takes a lot for me to like a poem.

For instance, here is one of my favorite poems.

This poem only works for me if I imagine that, after he wrote this poem, William H. Mearns was found murdered under mysterious circumstances.

Since poetry eats shit, it is hard for me to get into it.  But I have tried for a few weeks to come up with a good poem, because it is National Poetry Month.  Here is the best I could do.

That’s all I’ve got for you after weeks of trying.

See what I mean?  Poetry is total fucking smegma.

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