There has to be a metaphor
to turn this bucket of rotting fish
into meaningful art,
But fuck it I can’t think of one.
Part of me says poetic people persist in placing
far too much emphasis on technique,
all meaning obliterated as words are alliterated,
assonance arrogantly blasted out
by people with no confidence in consonance,
producing puerile nonsense verse.
So my work will sit unloved
like Donald Trump at a Women’s Institute meal
in a Mexican restaurant
as the curse of worthless shite
haunts everything I write.
Proper poetry perplexes me,
doggerel relaxes me, sets me free
and the crown of clueless clown
is my property.
Just don’t ask me to explain simile
It’s like a billow of smoke
drifting down a chimney.