Pop Cult Poetry

(Car,
dash,
shin.)

Crash!

Like a houseful of cats I’ve opted
not to adopt, yet
they’ve stepped in
on the mat,
wiping their
paws of platitudes.

I just
vaccuumed that.

Not to be so rude,
but my eyes are
no match for
something so
crudely
crowned.

Beautifully
disgusted by the vogue,
all that hairspray
holding up
its moral
codes,

that my
ode to you’s
this vehicle
I drove through
your house
in the
hills.

Metaphorically,
you swill.

God,

the hunger for
higher function kills
faster than
physical
starvation,

and it seems
I’ve had my
fill.

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