A Poem for Poetry Magazine

If understanding is what you want
go elsewhere.
You won’t find it here in this mess
of gobbledygook I’m about to spit out
using barely comprehensive
combinatorial phrases
because all I’m going to do is talk
out loud and type, and say things
that no one ever speaks or thinks
in real life, which is what you’re wasting
by reading one more line.
So how about oncogenesis?
Heard of it? Me neither, but it’s in there—
in the red dictionary on the shelf
on page 866, and if that doesn’t
impress you, then what if I told you
it meant the induction or formation
of tumors?  An appropriate word
for the subject matter, don’t you think?
So do you trust me or will you Google
that strange word
like you must surely Google every other
word that appears in the pages
of the world’s most prestigious poetry
rag that for some reason has actual
human beings who subscribe and try
every six months to get their own
drivel printed below the pretty cover
where the sheets are piss covered
narcissistic day dreams of postmodernism
which hurt hurt hurt to read
and if ever there lived a reader who
clawed their way from cover to cover,
they deserve no better word than masochistic
and maybe a round of applause.
Of course a few poets must be excluded
from this category of symbiotic opportunism
(you know who you are),
but we might find out in the next fifty years
that their whole process of publication
was some kind of hebetated
performance art meant to prove how
people will do and say and buy anything
if it makes them feel like they know
something you don’t.

DeMaris Gaunt

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