Internet Poets Are the Worst

Internet poets are the worst,
writing about children, blowing bubbles
to kill boredom, and about being positive
by facing a brand new day as a winner—
internet poets praise each others work:
“You’re so brilliant and phenomenal,
thought-provoking and unique—
yeah I feel the same way, my husband’s
been drinking and I don’t know what to do,
hon, just hang in there—I’ll pray for you
and those bubbly children of yours,
golly gee, I could lose some weight,
yes, I’ve been feeling lonely until I joined
this wonderful site, where I made so many
good friends—wonderful people everywhere,
ready to dispense so much good advice—
my poetry has gone so far
and I’ve grown so much—
this is my thousandth poem, golly gee,
I don’t need my therapist or my husband,
or even my vibrator”...

Internet poets are the worst—
you know it when you read their stuff
if you still haven’t committed suicide
or had another psychotic break,
Linda so-and-so is going through a divorce
and Leanne’s having an internet affair
and writing about it:
“My dearest Bill, how much I’d like to lick
your balls and feel your potent shaft inside me”...

Internet poets are the worst,
spreading religion and cunnilingus like the plague,
like some apocalypse—gee whiz, what will they
write about next, bring out those old cosmic clowns—
Bob the Divine and Elaine Walnuts—
to mystify and mesmerize with their far-out
cosmic insights about God and cosmic G-strings,
and that rugged drunk old-timer Eddie Bologna
to talk about Vietnam and dead heroes,
fishing lures and Ronald Reagan,
and those days of courage and Viet Cong whores
with razor blades in their pussies,
and how those liberals are fucking
everything up and taxing everyone
to death.

Internet poets are the worst—
bring out some lovely psycho chicks
with post-traumatic stress syndromes,
writing suicidal haikus
about being raped by several guys,
now searching for online validation,
bring out Bukowski and Burroughs-savvy young
dudes, talking about vomit, beer and cum,
needles and heroin addiction,
mainlining their poems down those internet
pipelines of shocking mediocrity...

Internet poets are the worst,
always starting some new poetry groups,
telling you that you have potential
if you fuck enough, if you drink enough,
if you tell enough lies about who you are
and where you are going—
going, going places and meeting new faces
and new publishers and editors
to publish and edit your work
and give you some great advice
about Jesus and heroin, about your soul
and tits ‘n’ ass, about rape and true love,
and how to make yourself sell to the average
Joe Blow, who knows nothing about poetry.

  August 6, 2004
--Alexander Shaumyan