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     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem gives Troy Lloyd an exemption clause.

He has signed a peace accord with this poem.

But the rest of you?

Genghis Khan rules only.


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This poem is a Cassandra poem.

You won't believe its prophesying until it's much too late.

So this poem is just gonna go get a pedicure or something.

Fuck all y'all.


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem "doesn't get it."



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem is an Entwicklungsroman.

Think I'm screwin' with ya?

Look more closely.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem needs to take the fucking Pontifex hat off.

Before somebody shoots it off, motherfucker.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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We know this poem is serious because it had its photo taken at Apollinaire's grave.

Fucking Pere-Lachaise.

This poem's not fucking with you.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem is a tow-truck operator for other poems.

You will look down on this poem as a prole.

But when your poem needs its service
at 3 a.m. out in the boonies,

you'd better be fuckin' nice.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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What does the century say?

"Pretty little rabbit-headed poems.

Drown them all in a bag, in a bag."

Merrily, merrily.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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Warning: This poem evaporates when exposed to the gaze of Yoko Ono.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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Gertrude Stein as a crossing guard:

"There's no here here.

Keep moving, people. Keep moving."


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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We need more cop poems that will say

"Sir, you're gonna need to calm down."



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This is a gay-identity poem.

I'm queer. I'm here.

Whew! Glad we got that over with!

Now whatcha wanna do?

Scrabble?


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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Not tonight. This poem has a headache.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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Oh, the world is just Francis Bacon applesauce anymore.

I'm just gonna stare at that crow for a few seconds.

Is he okay?

Yeah, crows help him clear a headspace.

Seriously?

Yeah.

That's pretty fucked up.


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem once committed blogicide.

It was nice.

Ice cream in January.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This little networking poem has middleaged IM slaves on three continents.

She has a career map that takes her to the age of sixty-four down on paper.

I kid you not.

This little networking poem is no "baby farm."

This little networking poem is Clytemnestra with a blackberry.

She did it all for the poetry nookie.

She has dreams where Sylvia Plath bakes her brownies.

Men are now women. Women are now men.

It's a good thing.


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem is somewhat hermaphroditic.

It can "satisfy all comers."

As they said in ancient Greece,

What the fuck's up with that?!



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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This poem will be very quiet once humans are gone.

Or will it?

Mwuhahaha.


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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I need some Buddha ice.

To put on this.

Poem cut.


     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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HOW CRITICISM WORKS:

When a poem attacks, it can get ugly fast.

You don't want to encounter the poem on its own terrain.

Try to lure the poem onto unfamiliar ground.

That way you will have a fighting chance.


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Penguin dust is overrated.

IMHO.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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I like to take a shower in pollen sometimes.

That's how I know spring's here.

Bed. William Carlos Williams.

A tryst.



     Lobotomized Feng-Shui
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You can choose your lobster but you can't choose your poem.

Really, you can't.

No, I mean it.

No, you can't.

Shut up.


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Your muse is a phreak of the streets.

Your muse broke Planned Parenthood's budget.

Your muse hangs at the Tuesday freebie v.d. clinic.

When they offer your muse free condoms there,
she swipes the whole counter into her pocketbook.

So ghetto.

My Muse is more chaste than thine.

My Muse does not have a "cauliflower pussy."

Your muse's pussy looks like a Halloween mask.

My Muse is not photographed for medical textbooks to give students nightmares.

Don't even mention My Muse in the same sentence with your muse.

Yuck.

Your muse gives Helicon a bad name.

Mnemosyne should have used the hairbrush on your muse's ass more.

Take your hootchie muse and vamoose.

I am spraying the rooms your muse passed through with Renuzit now.

So the rooms smell like lavendar and not "hootchie muse."

Fuck off with your muse-cow!

Hera chased that trash Io 'cross the Bosporus for a reason!