oh this sickening gang.they write poetry
poem after a poem
exploding out of their PC’s or notebooks-
sick and dry as dead flowers

they fill up pages and pages
with bad poetry
and submit them to all the little
magazines
and of course
most of them get published

they live with they mothers and/or
they ugly and stupid wives and girlfriends
and in most of the times they support them
because they think that they are
poets
like it is something saint and
sacred.

they keep writing
and they try do drink a lot
because they read Bukowski and Hemingway
and the letters of Van Gogh to his brother
but at the end they are just drunk little shits
screaming in the mirror for recognition

sometimes even the professors invite them
to read in the universities and after this they
go home with some long-legged blond co-ed
with empty eyes and wasted soul
because you know,they are poets
and they deserve this

and this whole race keep going and going
and going
and we have to congratulate them for keeping
the poetry
dead.

please
bless them all
God, or someone
else.

————

Peycho Kanev is 28 years old. He loves to listen to sad music while he drinks slowly his beer. His work has been published in Word Riot, Gloom Cupboard, Poetry Cemetery, Nerve Cowboy, The Chiron Review, The Guild of Outsider Writers, Spoken War, Side of Grits, Southern Ocean Review and many others. He loves to put the word down and not talking on the cell phone for days. He is nominated for Pushcart Award. He lives in Chicago. Alone.