Sonnet
Fuck your simile. Fuck your elegy for.
Fuck your homily, your extended metaphor.
Fuck your metonymy.
Fuck your exquisite language economy.
Fuck your metre, your keeping time.
Fuck your vers libre. Fuck your rhyme.
Fuck your Elizabethan men in doublets.
Fuck their wheedling come-to-bed couplets.
Fuck your turn after the octave.
Fuck whoever poetry’s meant to save.
Fuck the avant-garde. Fuck tradition.
Fuck your lightly foxed first edition.
Fuck your totally unexpected epiphany.
Fuck your sonnet about wanting to fuck Tiffany.
Tim Upperton