Poem – Tim Upperton

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

Tagged with: , ,
Posted in Poem
Search the archive

More results...

Generic selectors
Exact matches only
Search in title
Search in content
Post Type Selectors
Filter by Categories
Architecture
Art
Autobiography
Awards
Biography
Byline
Children
Comment
Contents
ebooks
Economics
Editorial
Education
Essays
Extract
Fiction
Gender
Graphic novel
Health
History
Imprints
Language
Lecture
Letters
Letters
Literature
Māori
Media
Memoir
Music
Natural History
Non-fiction
Obituaries
Opinion
Pacific
Photography
Plays
Poem
Poetry
Politics & Law
Psychology
Religion
Review
Science
Short stories
Sociology
Sport
War
YA Reviewers
Young adults
Recent issues: subscriber-only access

    Subscribe to NZ Books to access the issues above

    Search by category

    See more