poems should be ugly as trees and grief, these are my treason and should cum in the face of my enemies. they should stink like cadaver’s nightmare, which is life, or like the soiled panties of christ unlaundered from some shitty cross.
they should stink so good even worms condescend to fuck in them, poems tend to be too sterile and clean for the fertile whore’s abortion that is life, a worm is too proud to fuck in them, the hairy worm who shall turn his path through the sweet tender rotting meat, flesh god spat out in his whorish cuspidor, the coffin we put the dead and their devils in to marinade in their sins. the worms remember us as sinful and feckless children.
a poem should stink of piss and shit and the egoism it is, it should smoke and drink and sin, it should sodomize night, like we do when we are alive