This is my rant against nepotism in poetry. It’s called Not There Yet.
i can’t write like you and i’m not there yet
i want to get there but i doubt i really will
this unimportant circle is a nepotistic wildfire
wherein nobody can have a thought without
writing it down.
i can’t write like them and i’m not there yet
they’ve given themselves peerages in poetry
everything they say is a shape contrived from steam
there are no kings and queens, only
multiple, influential lovers.
we eat chive flowers that grow outside the cop shop
we drink at weekends and roast chickens at
perfect temperatures, nibble at our own
psychotic bodies, tasting sour. pickled.