Classic Michael Appleby

Last week I performed "Vitriol" as a means of wrapping up the latest reading series by The Raving Poets. Here is the poem for those of you who aren't familiar with it. I will be back to my regular posting habits shortly. The past few days have been rather hectic and my sleeping patterns have been all over the map.

Vitriol
Fuck your tyrants, your pyros, the church spire steeples, the holier-than-thou hard dick like a cross indoctrinating peoples.
Fuck your five speed, pneumatic, microchipped, long-range dildonic devices, your intercontinental ballistic rectal rooter arms race strap-on motives.
Fuck your car, your hair, your icy blue-eyed stare, your mom if she cares, your planet if you dare.
Fuck your telescopic knee brace, broken down poker face homoerotic histrionics, Parliament Hill synonymy with ninja stealth boob job.
Fuck your phony cities of glass licking my ass, acerbic acroters applying the rim jobs on eternity, poke you in the eye with phallic imagery.
Fuck your credit card limit statements stuffing the mailboxes; the mailman’s arm pumping with pornstar precision.
Fuck your need for more speed, more tits, bigger dicks.
Fuck your procreation if the end result is just like you.
Fuck your recyclable telekinetic wishes, your dreams of unaided flight, your ideals of a bubblegum pop princess balloon.
Fuck your celebrity idolatry anal sex banter, your J.Lo hourglass hugging Brady Bunch trousers.
Fuck your statues of people, your history dizzy disease.
Fuck your alternative systems of homeopathy, your psychotic, homeostatic, armed to the braced teeth, low carb Atkins drink of doom.
Fuck your domestic origami, orgasms of renovate-ativity, your desires for dementia, schizophrenic duvet covers sheltering inability.
Fuck your forty-dollar two-piece birthday suit, your navel gazing, placenta-wet perfectly sculpted body.
Fuck your sex if it isn’t made kinky.
Fuck your commemorative plates, your dinner of battery heated gopher road kill du jour.
Fuck your matriarchal maitre d’, dressed to the sevens, Seven-11, dressed to the nines. 1 billion people starving. The other five smearing their genitals with peanut butter for dogs’ licking.
Fuck your fake love of fake arts, your pompous Pompadour pomander, pomegranate seed sperm, proliferate that shit sperm, hit-you-on-the-chin sperm.
Fuck your modification mortifications, your custom flame job on a penile implant, unhinged meat tube slapping you in the face.
Fuck your circus-time clowns, your wartime crowds, your mushroom clouds.
Fuck your family network of lies.
Fuck your Double-You Bush, your tree, your need to be green, your hip to the scene, your lists of currently has-been.
Fuck your executive privilege, balanced precariously on a high ledge, suicidal fuck fist raised to the heavens.
Fuck the feeling of being the last rebel.
Fuck the hopelessness against the empire.
Fuck George Lucas for making me think this could be Star Wars.
Fuck your lines of Pepsi, your love of being alert, your need to document it all, your diesel powered whisk stirred memento vat.
Fuck your word if your word is “YES!” when I’m asking you if you’re loving it wearing that Ronald McDonald vest.
Fuck your sleepless nights of cookie cutter x-ray scans.
Fuck your dreamless days of Richard Hamilton tans.
Fuck your institutionalized intentions intent on interns. All I do is cry.
Fuck your Windsor Pilates Tae-Bo.
Fuck your fuckee no more.