<<Warning! This is a highly offensive poem aimed at a very specific demographic. Some may call this racist. If so, kindly fuck off.>>
pojaculation (noun): a type of poetry restricted to the blogging world that commonly revolves around unimportant daily occurrences and feelings, and that often is motivated by the modern-day need to express diaries in open blogging format. Typically ridiculous and frivolous, pojaculation is uniformly of poor quality and generally sucks ass.
pojaculate (verb): the act of creating pojaculation.
No, this is not a poem about fucking
It is a poem about fucking poetry
Sorry that’s still not right
And I’m not rhyming at all
But I’m pretty sure this is a poem
A poem about how much I hate
You lousy loutish
Yes, you, poet in the corner
This is about you
And your genes
And your toilets
And well fuck you
But let me explain further
In case I am unclear
This is a poem about:
Why do we do it?
Why do we think it?
How exactly do we pull it
Out our ass?
Because that’s where it comes from
And this poem too
It’s not even really a poem
If you want the truth
But then again -
- Little poets of the world
Yours aren’t either
See how I did that?
I used an indent
And some hyphens
That smell like hymens
Drowned in a mixed drink
Made of limons
So let’s recap the internet collection of poetry:
(Read this part between the parentheses
Unless you want to read poetry made of feces
God that was the like the worst rhyme in my head
I wanted to be profound but shit came out instead
Are you familiar with this feeling my dainty sluts?
My poetry-writing monkey-sucking pretentious fucks?)
Shit there go the brackets, where did they end up?
Likely in more horseshit poetry about ducks
Okay, so, we were about to present a smattering of poetry
Distributed upon the internet dressed in revealing hosiery
Seriously I am so so so bad at this poetry godawful shit
I’m just so glad that even shit rhymes with shit
Anyway, here’s a smattering of internet poetry
About lice and pygmies and lice-ridden pygmies in a tree:
“Hi sunny people, I’m what you call a paperclip poet
I’m a person with wonderful observations don’t you know it
Once I wrote about how I miss my old couch
And my sugardaddy deadbeat cheating whore spouse
Yes, I inserted a dildo into the tooth fairy’s anus
Sure yes I thought that poem would make me famous”:
But it fucking didn’t
Because something is hidden
I think it may be skill
Or a hash pipe made of krill
I don’t fucking know
Please don’t go!
Let me tell you how I feel
About God being totally real
Or about that day I caught a fish
And served it in a nice green dish
And afterwards I had a really great nap
No detail is too small for my poetry crap
Anyway, here’s some big words for y’all to copy
Asshole fucknut ditch-pig penis-all-floppy
I have heard you say “ferment” and “erudite”
You stupid fucks please go out and get a life.
Hello deadbeat poets’ guild
Fucking all should be killed
Because I’m racist against you poets
I hate you for no reason don’t you know it
I’d round you up and sink you in the sea
But first I’d hit you like fucking Bruce Lee
Roundhouse kicks to knock the rhymes
Back into your brains that’re missing minds
When exactly did we decide it’s bad to make
A rhyme with “angie” or “orange” or “butt-cake”?
Fuck, you know that Shakespeare actually rhymed
Probably the best poet of the good kind?
Remember him you feckless new age poem whores?
You repetitive, unimaginative plaid-wearing bores?
But not to tell of good or evil luck
Please, kindly, go find and suck a fuck
Who will believe my verse in time to come?
Reading your shit takes a bottle of rum
So sure, is it not with me as with that muse
I’d like to beat you poets with my shoes
Stomp stomp bang bang all the poets done
Dead Shakespeare fingers holding the gun
Yes fuckers I know it sounds a bit much
But I’m getting a gang together, we’ll be in touch
Really I’m sorry about your paper cut
The other day
And about the bomb
Dropped by the Enola Gay
There, I went and did it
I’m off the reservation
I will hand in my poetry card at the front desk
For my glass shall not persuade me I am old
Please reach into my pants, search around and take hold
Of this prose-writing penis recently stung by a bumble bee
And that ejaculates wordstreams of questionable quality
Holy shit I so totally suck!
Why would I write that muddled muck?
It’s like an addiction but one I’m letting go
I’m leaving you, you miserable poetry hoes
This is it
This is the shit
This is the last poem ever to grace
This shitty time and this shitty place
The last you will ever hear of me
Right now I need to pee
God I am so conflicted about this all
I just put a nail through my left ball
It seemed to pierce through the scrotum
Now the right ball is free and floatin’
In a shitty mudpile of fuck-up verse
That better belongs in the back of a hearse
There, now I went and involved the reaper
You fucking poets made me fucking do it!
I fucking forgot to rhyme once more!
Fuck you and your muse, that whore!
Stick her with a dagger made of prose
And launder her slutty unrhyming clothes!
Fuck me that makes no sense at all
What is going through my head and where are my balls?
Where are my balls, I ask dear poets?
You are poets and don’t even know it!
Oh my God I’d rather pick up some zombie disease
Than ask for one more poem on the internet please
But since he died and poets better prove
Theirs for their style I’ll read, his for his love!
Oh his for his love full many a glorious morning have I seen
Kissing with golden face the meadows green
Well fuck the meadows and the cows eating the grass
And while you’re at it please slide over and lick my ass
With ugly rack on his celestial face
I’d beat you poets with a can of mace
Oh there we go again that doesn’t make sense at all!
But that’s what happens when you’re missing your balls!
Yes we’re talking about some cyber-eunuch on the net
As full of hatred and racism towards poets as you can get
Fuck you and die horrible sordid deaths
I’ll bury you in in a great big hornet nest
But do not despair, I love thee in such sort
Fucking die you fucking poets, mine is thy good report
And on a note of sympathy
We the internet offer the following apology:
I get that you need to do this
But even non-poets need to piss
Do you really have to do it on the web
Can’t you just go away and die instead?
The fucking end
It really is
I will never poet again
I will never spit that filth
I will never despoil the memory
Of chattering trees and abundance that am sufficed
What the fuck does that even mean?
What was the bard smoking in the field?
And here I was expecting to stop
But this is one big cow plop
Which doesn’t even sound good by the way
Why are you still reading this, why did you stay?
Did you hope for realization and redemption?
Did you then of thy beauty call into question?
Or did you merely want to witness a total farce?
Out of respect for some dead poet’s over-white arse?
Well, I admire your tenacity
But if you’re a poet I will kill your family
That sounds so totally bad it can’t be cool
I will drown your unrhyming ass in a swimming pool
Well if there is one point I want to make very true
It’s that you new-age poets, I fucking hate you
The end. Fuckers.
((Note: I know there are good poets out there – great admiration to those of you who are good at your craft. You know who you are. And if you’re unsure, what does that mean? I know poetry can be marvelous. But I suck at it, and hence the anger, plus some of you genuinely suck too. Also, thanks to Susan Daniels for the creation of the word “pojaculation”.))