Y'all, I hate modern poetry.
I’ll write you a sonnet, one day,
because you’re beautiful
and you’ll never read it.
Shakespeare is fuel for an oil drum,
(to you)
or an extended match
with which to light the bongs of revolution.
We’ll call it-
the Cheeto Revolution.
Our color will not be red,
but a faint powdery orange that rubs off
on your fingers (and stays
there for weeks, an outward marking
for when you’ll be sober again.)
You don’t count the ways of love,
because love is a capitalistic construct,
a new form of currency,
which you won’t buy into
(although your father has a few stocks
and a mutual fund, which pays for your tutition.)
I’ll write you a punk-rock love song,
because you’re amazing,
and you’ll never hear it.
Punk died with Sid and Nancy,
(you say)
and it’s all just bubblegum rock,
no matter what they have to say.
You are above all that.
You sit around with your friends
and riff on some old Bob Dylan songs.
It totally sucks that he works
for Victoria’s secret, now.
I’ll try a love letter next,
because you’re emancipated,
and you never check the mail.
The universe is contained in your camera phone,
and snail mail is just that:
slow,
and it uses too many trees
to maintain your green cred.
I guess I’ll never tell you
“I love you”
in a way you’ll pay attention to,
because you’re awful and vain,
and I can’t love someone like that.
You and your faux-sophisticated subculture,
you live vicariously through people
who wasted lifetimes
on living vicariously through people
who had the real lives.
The good books, good
poems have not all
been written.
We have stories, too,
and when the Revolution comes,
we’ll be waiting in black and red and white and gray,
(and I’ll give my sonnets and love songs and letters
to someone who lives the life
you have without
trying or being
so damn snooty.)
because you’re beautiful
and you’ll never read it.
Shakespeare is fuel for an oil drum,
(to you)
or an extended match
with which to light the bongs of revolution.
We’ll call it-
the Cheeto Revolution.
Our color will not be red,
but a faint powdery orange that rubs off
on your fingers (and stays
there for weeks, an outward marking
for when you’ll be sober again.)
You don’t count the ways of love,
because love is a capitalistic construct,
a new form of currency,
which you won’t buy into
(although your father has a few stocks
and a mutual fund, which pays for your tutition.)
I’ll write you a punk-rock love song,
because you’re amazing,
and you’ll never hear it.
Punk died with Sid and Nancy,
(you say)
and it’s all just bubblegum rock,
no matter what they have to say.
You are above all that.
You sit around with your friends
and riff on some old Bob Dylan songs.
It totally sucks that he works
for Victoria’s secret, now.
I’ll try a love letter next,
because you’re emancipated,
and you never check the mail.
The universe is contained in your camera phone,
and snail mail is just that:
slow,
and it uses too many trees
to maintain your green cred.
I guess I’ll never tell you
“I love you”
in a way you’ll pay attention to,
because you’re awful and vain,
and I can’t love someone like that.
You and your faux-sophisticated subculture,
you live vicariously through people
who wasted lifetimes
on living vicariously through people
who had the real lives.
The good books, good
poems have not all
been written.
We have stories, too,
and when the Revolution comes,
we’ll be waiting in black and red and white and gray,
(and I’ll give my sonnets and love songs and letters
to someone who lives the life
you have without
trying or being
so damn snooty.)