More years ago than I care to count I flirted with poetry. I wanted to be a writer. I thought writers, like good epicureans, should sample everything. So I joined a poetry group.

I learned two things in that class. 1. I hate writing poetry. Really detest it. Hardest brain twister I’ve every sacrificed some cells to. 2. I hate poets. Even more than I hate writing poetry. Don’t get me wrong, there is poetry I love, but the poets that wrote it are all dead.

While writing these poems I was also watching a lot of Italian horror. You may seem some influence. I considered not putting these up here at all, but if you can’t mock yourself, you have no right mocking others. And I do love mocking others.

So read on if you dare. Comments are on. I can take it.

Someone asked me, “why do you want to write?” at the same point in time as I was dabbling with poetry, so I tried to explain it through writing. This was the result. I should have just said “To get girls.”

Mortality is a common theme in the poems of naturalists, and romantics for that matter. But they alway seem to eschew facing it head on. I wrote this poem to annoy a goth poet in my group obsessed with romantic death.

While I am a true believer in true love, spending any amount of time with a poet in love (which I unfortunately did – she wasn’t in love with me, nor I with her, we just knew each other) that doesn’t have the writing chops to match her ardor can drive you to a poem like this one.

An homage to Odes and ‘Possums. Snarky fun.

My father worked really hard his entire life and died a few years after retirement. I wrote this before he died because it bothered me he had to work so hard for so little. It is the only poem I didn’t write as a joke, and so it is a bit heavy handed.

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