Maybe you can make it ironic.
Something that feels like a girl in a short skirt at a party.
Offending her sensibilities with her own humour.
Daring you to love her and playing never-to-get.
Pretend there’s a joke that only her and the people who like the poem know.
Maybe you can make it angry.
And tell a story of how how strong your mother was.
She raised you all on her own.
Or how drunk your father was.
Act like you were born on railroad tracks.
Maybe your father was a train.
Get someone to play an 808 in the background.
Maybe you can put it in the middle of the road.
Pontificate a little.
Become a vanilla paste of words.
Don’t say anything really.
Wonder about the nature of a pen.
Maybe you can make it impenetrable.
Be as vague as possible.
Slam your fist into a grapefruit and make a kind of growling noise.
Roll your eyes as soon as someone asks you what it means.
Snap your fingers to show you don’t understand.
Wear a beret.
Maybe you can make it a history lesson.
Talk about the plants and leaves that grew around you.
Tell me something about a smell you remember from a kitchen.
Shock me with some kind brutality either inflicted or received or witnessed.
Write one of the words in a language I don’t understand.
Put it in italics.
Maybe you can make it real sensitive.
Write words that kiss the skin.
Make them sound like the space between two drum beats.
Talk about what it feels like to breathe.
Because poetry is the only art form that people naturally expect to be,
So it’s ok to write shit poetry.