I'M NOT SIMON ARMITAGE

By Sean Chard

Tear my poems to shreds,

set fire to them,

dance on their ashes.

Make them into pulp-balls,

pea-shoot them at your loved ones,

fold them into origami jumping frogs.

Line a litter tray with them,

let your cats shit on them,

let them purr.

Bend them into a wedge to stop a table from rocking,

cut yourself on their paper’s edge,

blame the paper, blame me, blame the poems.

Staple them together,

pick the staple open with your nails,

remove it, feel satisfied.

Soak them in tea,

make a treasure map,

mulch them into your garden boarders.

Make them into papier mâché busts of Liz Truss,

wait forty-nine days,

throw them away.

Read them aloud replacing every word

with a scream.

Have a cry, use them to dab away your tears.

My poems have broad shoulders,

my poems can handle it — because my poems,

like me, don’t give a fuck.

#DarkPoetsClub #DarkHumourBitterIrony