Christina, you pop-culture drunk Mary Poppins,
batting your eyes at wealth and beauty
your legs spread under invisible neon lights––
please close your robot-Revlon lips
and silence your dumbed-down sickening musical.
Stephen, you sub-culture slut Edward Scissorhands,
rolling your eyes at malls and meat-eaters
covered in cat hair and flea-market kitsch––
your life is the ambient noise of trains and growling stomachs
droning on amateur college radio.
Maybe you should drop out of poetry class and, for once,
become competent at something––
like writing girly cursive cliffs notes
to your yawn of an autobiography, saturated
with Nutra-Sweet jingles and after-school-special dilettante rambling.
I should. So you can write this poem to and from your idiotic self
and perpetuate your self-obsessed monologue of imagined importance.
Congratulations! Even your insults are sub-par; at least you’re consistent!
Maybe you could rehearse them in your spastic, overdramatic voice
in your messy-ass room with a closet-full of overpriced sweatshop clothes
and six unread books, you unending afterthought of self-involved contradictions.
It took you eighteen minutes to come up with that? You could do better,
you unending wreck of Indians in a glass head, acid tripping,
kung-fu gripping electromagnetic brainwave frequencies,
chattering cavities and phantom track marks.
Yeah, eighteen minutes is a long time. Sorry,
I kept getting distracted by your predictable board-game
of regurgitated Anglo-Saxon beauty myth––
you juvenile derivative fairy tale on legs.
Maybe you should reapply eyeliner; trace over
your big vacant monochromatic stare on your
faux animé-doll-eyes reflected in the aftermarket mirror
of your German ancestry,
you neon-pink bundle of mermaid insecurity.
And you, my malnourished Prince Charming
in need of a shave and a decent night’s sleep,
pacing the corridors, contemplating a toaster in the moat—
try getting dressed with the lights on, for once.
I hope you find in me
something you lack in yourself,
that you add it to your inventory of projection slides
in your show for the oblivious masses.
Is that directed at me, or your father?—
You should really discuss these issues with a therapist,
you knotted twine-ball of unresolved infantile neurosis.
Nice pre-packaged line that failed to deliver,
you rapid boiling pot of self-admiration.
You probably fuck to your own goddamned music
and recite your own poetry as you come.