Rap without the drum machine?

Crap even if they had one, I’d wager. Poets in groups is never a good thing.

And can we cut it out with the September 11th, 2001 stuff? It’s really trying my patience.

Planes burn across sky
Twin towers smolder above.
My cat likes tuna.

Slept by the window
Awakened by a spider.
Necrotic bite, aargh!!!!

I was saving this for the inauguration of the poetry nook, but what the hey--

Dedication
For my best whore
You make waking up less of a daily nightmare
You’re also making me fat
So please stop being so tasty
You overprocessed wench, you

ODE TO A POP TART
Cracked pop tart
You’ve shed your cellophane rags
Just for me
Spread on my plate
Gleaming red simmers betwixt palest skins
Uninnocent bleeding beckons
The sinner with the highest price
85 cents at the vending machine
A dollar twenty five at the Store 24
But you, my love,
You were free
And now you’re spread
Your goods trickle out of
Frail, broken skin
Your garish maquillage
Does not hide the crusting paleness beneath
Cherry, you call yourself
(Yesterday it was Brown Sugar,
Your discount bin comrade)
Mistaking tawdry bruised pink
For the flush of youth
You, yes you, on my desk
Your wicked grin of sucrose and sin
Just like the tart
My mother warned me about.

Mmmm… garish maquillage .

Alright, just to get it out of the way:

BOOM!
BOOM BOOM BOOM!
WHAT THE FUCK?