There’s a trend now
for poetry that’s like
something you’d stick
on a t-shirt or toilet cubicle
next to ‘suck me.’
Feel-good, warm,
quasi-philosophical
shit.
And not the good shit.
This loved up soup
brings in the groupies
on Instagram
and the ‘poets’
make a living from
smiling and spunking
in the permanent
neon sunset.
Oh, the remains
of Hollywood happy endings,
brains scrambled into sticky
pudding.
Bogdan Tiganov
aiurea press 