to beyoncé
i’ll admit
i’ve only heard your music in passing
have tried to keep the bile down
in front of people who call you an artist
but beyoncé
there’s a pack of girls sitting here
maybe they’re eleven, twelve tops
who think you’re a dream
they love your body
they want your body
the fat one says, if i slimmed down
i’d have beyoncé’s body
her friend says, no you wouldn’t
in that sharp twelve year-old way
she says, all i have to do is diet
another says, i am dieting
i haven’t eaten lunch for two months
they’re sucking pepsi, beyoncé
so that fifty million they gave you is safe in the bank
the one girl looks painted up like a clown
i don’t know how she got
out of the house looking like that
maybe her friends fixed her
in the bathroom at school
while they were singing one of your songs
although to be quite honest, bey
none of the girls have mentioned your music
but they’ve talked about how beautiful you are
that air-brushed skin on those l’oreal ads
those legs in twenty-foot tall h&m ads
your blonde wig in the toyota ad
hell, even the president says
that you’re a role model to his daughters
so in his drone-strike daydreams
you must be doing something right
…and toni morrison be damned
beyoncé, i don’t mean to pick on you
i know you’ve done some philanthropic work
but you’re one of a dozen of no talents
fortunate enough to make a buck in the oligarchy
and ordinarily i’d say take the money and run, babe
buy yourself a vegan paradise
a million dollar fruit flush and detox diet
only, maybe, think of the kids
the next time you’re shaking your ass for the big money
signing on for another fortune
to sell sugar drinks and fairy tales to little girls
who can hardly breathe from the fumes
of your perfume
and are too weak from starvation
to get up and dance
when one of your infectious jams
comes on the radio
in between the commercial breaks.
....and this oldie seems fitting this week:
fat poetry editor
the fat poetry editor
has his face on a dozen web sites
standing in front of a microphone
like some third-rate comedian
he’s not fooling anyone with that tweed blazer
and a faded concert t-shirt
that he bought at target or wal-mart
the fat poetry editor
is short and squat and hairy
he belongs eating potatoes in middle earth
instead of looking at my poetry
but the world isn’t fucking fair
i’m not rich or good looking
or very talented
plus i’m kind of overweight too
and the fat poetry editor gets to look at my poems
then send me back rejection notes
telling me that my shit sounds like a bon jovi song
usually after something like that
i sit in front of my machine
and think of ways of getting back
at the fat poetry editor
like i’ll google him and read his shitty poetry
just to make myself feel better
or i’ll jack-off to internet porn
to stave off the thoughts of creative suicide
but the feeling doesn’t last too long
because i still have that rejection letter
sitting in my inbox
thus proving that the fat poetry editor wins in the end
i’m sure he gets his poetry rejected too
with poems like his he must
but i’m also sure that the fat poetry editor
has made a lot of friends in this shabby business
so he’s assured himself a place in many an online rag
plus there’s some quid pro quo going on there, i think
the fat poetry editor scratches someone’s back
then they comb their fingers through his furry haunch
it has to be like that
otherwise i sound like a bitter man here
and bitter men
never have their pictures up
on literary web site
the way that fat poetry editors do. 10.12.12
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