Ms. Atwood And Ms. Oates (Monroe’s Distaste in Poetry)

Ms. Oates, I am so goddamned tired

of broken bones, exuded guts,

of slashed wrists bleeding on the page,

queer deaths and all your other ruts,

that I could go pick flowers.

Margaret Atwood, I’m so tired

of rotten stenches, evil grime,

of crusty blood and liquid shit,

maimed images devoid of rhyme

that I could put down poetry.

Oh Oates and Atwood, I’m so tired

of torture, murder, boy-girl hate,

deranged entrapments, all contrived;

your monsters are a stale old slate

of bullshit.

And I almost wish you girls would leap

before a snowblower,

or steamroller in summer,

and get fulfilled.