Not to brag, but...

My Poetry

My poetry will kick your ass up and down the block and twice on Sundays. My poetry will smack you upside the head when you try to sass. My poetry will run over your puppy and laugh. My poetry will come late to your party, drink up all the rum and vomit in your boot. My poetry will take your blank checks from your pocket book while you're standing in line to see Star Wars. My poetry will dangle your car keys over your head and make you bark for them. My poetry visits hookers and jumps out the window before paying. My poetry has whores dressed just in high heels, corsets and bloomers chasing it down the cobblestone street. My poetry knows all the best stairwells to hide from the undercover cops. My poetry shares dirty needles. My poetry never uses a condom. My poetry kisses open mouthed, wet and sloppy. My poetry shows up to work one morning with a face tattoo. My poetry can insult your mother in 16 languages. My poetry has a 900 number. My poetry borrows your car without asking and runs it out of gas in a busy intersection. My poetry trips old ladies as they cross the street. My poetry spent some time "inside", and by inside I mean "in jail". My poetry smokes 2 packs a day. My poetry is drunk and obnoxious by noon everyday, and all day long on the weekends. My poetry rides the subway at 4AM bareassed, sits down on all the seats and wiggles. My poetry chews bubblegum flavored tabbaca. My poetry steals people's dirty underwear and stores them in a safe. My poetry lies straight to your face. My poetry can do all of you, all at once, right now.