the moon-faced tyke who lives two houses down . . .
in point of fact, there’s not a kid in town
has not known pain – betrayal galore –
by the time he’s barely more than four – or five
– every sentient being alive –
why yesterday, the girl next door…
naw, forget it
you’ve already read it
as recently as last night
[it oozes all over that site]
bald banality to strip – outstrip – the gears
on the beet-stained bandage of your ears
I mean really;
peans for this pap?
what a holy load of lachrymose crap !
[common vanity and self-indulgence
the ordinary ego’s ersatz effulgence]
who hasn’t hurt
tried not to cry
when xy died
kept it all inside
I mean – fuck me:
has this anything to do with poetry?
I really don’t think so
Ok. So I’m a grump.