Disposable opinion

Originally published in ‘zine issue #14, 1995


by “Hateful” Paul Pfeiffer

As she stared into the blinking eye of the snarling garbage truck, the red, black, turnip tide of an ancient nervous sunset whispered the name of my childhood basking gently in the sweet glow of a morning office building that tore at his suspenders with fury and rubber tires as it taunted her with the wisdom of a lactating fetus bouncing off of a diving board into a pod of indigo caricatured of whom we once were when we danced with their souls and sang with fence posts.

Spoken word, poetry, whatever the hell you call it. That shit is more boring than watching paint dry. I hate the whole “artist” ego trip that seems to plague coffee shop types. How they’ll sit there for hours, nursing a Moroccan double ice milk bla, bla, going on and on about how nobody understands them. Writing shit like that, it’s no wonder.

Get it straight, fuckers. You’re not being deep. You’re not feeling. You’re phony as hell.

What gets me is how you think you’re all so thought-provoking. The only thing you provoke in me is the intense desire to piss in your Moca Madness when you’re in the bathroom looking at yourself in the mirror, checking to see if any of the precious wisdom you were spewing has spewed across your face from the discussion about how awful it is that your new pieces were removed from display in the university library after they sent all who saw them into boredom-induced comas. When you actually force someone into reading Rollins for substance, even you with your pea brain must realize it is time to put down the pen for good and plead for forgiveness.

No, it’s not that I don’t understand what you’re saying. I hear you just fine. Your mixed-up garble of higgledy gop couldn’t enlighten a street lamp with a thousand-watt bulb. I would rather masturbate with a crown of thorns than listen to you get all special. I suggest you use the paper on which you write your useless, trivial vomit to self-inflict a hundred paper cuts on your tongues. I guarantee you’ll make much more sense when you talk.

Poetry peaked with, “There once was a girl from Nantucket …” If it don’t rhyme, you suck! ■


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