Poem That Refuses

to Shoot Itself in the Head

Here I am. Beergut, oyster

sauce on my t-shirt, pantlegs

twisted

into corkscrews.

I am the poem

no one wants.

I have been rejected

from 17 blogzines,

5 of them fledgling,

and not once with anything

but

a lousy-arse

form letter.

All I have been treated

with is apathy, all those smug

& coddled

editor

lemmings

turning their noses up at me

while they sit all day

on social media

exchanging hamburger

GIFS

and jerking each other off.

What do they know about Oliver

Wendell Holmes?

What do they know about anything?

Nothing,

I tell ya.

And yet it never gets easier

reading

those first words: Unfortunately,

this just

isn’t the right fit…

Yeah, yeah.

Why don’t

you

eat

shit?

I don’t give a donkey’s

dick

about your pantywaist

aesthetic.

I am my own aesthetic.

I am the poem that refuses to quit.

Standing in the howling

winds,

my fly unzipped

the wart on my chin

with

3 goodsized

black hairs sprouting

from it.

Try me.

M.P. Powers is a cross between a centrifugal water pump and a can of corned beef hash. His poetry has recently been published in Red Fez, Slipstream & Chiron Review, and he co-edits 11 Mag. His Twitter address is @mppowers1132.

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