Poetry like talking. A Poem by Vlad Krakov

poetry like talking
preferably like the talking of the old farts who talk to themselves on crowded public transport
poetry like self-indulgent diary entries whispered into your ear
poésie comme des entrées de journal intime indulgent chuchoté dans votre oreille
poetry written with the aid of Google translate when I should know how to say that in French
by those who will wilfully forget a language
poetry written by twelve year olds who think swearing is kewl
poetry written by spoiled brats who’ll cry incessantly until you take them to toys-r-us and buy them those new bionicles
poetry written on cracked nokias
by individuals who do not know
how to hold a pencil properly or even a quill
written by people who never look up from their phones
who will be the first to have bad posture in middle age
whom old folks look at and shake their heads in contempt at
who don’t really mean anymore it when they ask “how are you?”
written by people who are too lazy to decapitalize the autocapitalization
and are always Tangled up in their earphones
lazy poetry
ugly poetry
poetry written out of boredom
boredom and disgust
ennui et dégoût
poetry written by houses with no more room for cuteness
by houses who have wasted six years on the writing of cute poetry
ths is not a cute world
goodbye cuteness
hello the shells we put on in our fight to return to cuteness
militancy (non-violent preferably) a la recherche du kawaii perdu
poetry that builds the tortoiseshells and pitchforks we don in our blind and crying search for cuteness
poetry written with mixed metaphors
poetry that thinks it’s so cool to break the rules
full of dumb didacticisms
poetry with nothing new,
poetry that’s been done before,
a hundred times,
but should be done again
because we are forgetful
because noone cares about Cervantes anymore
poetry written out of order
where the order doesn’t matter
poetry that is not only repetitive but redundant and lazy
poetry that tastes like out of order vending machines
poetry like shitsmears on the walls
spelling out what everyone knows but dares not say
like shitsmears that make the suits shudder as they speed walk by
and for one second wakes up the dog they thought they had put down for good
poetry that makes you cringe
poetry full of cringey cliques
that should be put into a coffin
with a hundred highschool hallway locker locks
poetry written in cemetaries
with hands that have been sticky with orange juice
for over half an hour
poetry written with intermediate breaks
dedicated to dancing on graves
and staring at asses
like an asshole
trying to return home
poetry written by people who think they are the shit
poetry written by people who think the world is shit
and cannot see what is right before them
cannot see what is in their palms
who do not know the difference between a cedar and a fir
nor when strawberrie season is
poetry to rouse the dogs
to Rouse the dingos
to nips them in the ass
dingo-ass-nipping poetry written by sleepless dingos
doomed to eternity
and doomed to mortality
By sad Greek toga-donning dingos
who leave a bad taste in your mouth
after you’ve said goodbye to them
by people who are not like themselves
and yet just like everyone else.


Vlad Krakov:
“Vancouver’s famously self-pitying dumpster-juice-for-blood Bad Luck Brian. Favorite pastimes include brooding and drinking at dog-friendly beaches and chatting with the spirit of Lou Reed through an ouija board. Currently working as a research assistant in an archaeology lab.”
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times his publications include All the Babble of the Souk and Cartoon Molecules collected poems and Key of Mist the recently published Tesserae translations from Spanish poets Guadalupe Grande and Carmen Crespo visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (Leeds University)