In as many languages as necessary:
nyet, nein, less chance
I’ll click love on the latest post-
post-avant-garde patio you’ve addended
to the foundationless house of your theory,
than of a bull exiting a slaughterhouse’s iron jaws
with his swaggering rump intact.

I’d rather tear out bits of my own liver
with an argumentative breadknife,
mash it into a pâté and serve it
atop water biscuits to the next meeting
of your posh ladies’ poetry semi-circle
than listen to those who say hourly rosaries
to the Etruscan goddess Mania
to be made tenured Chair of Thin, Fat, or Bald Studies,

when you open a mouthload of exquisite
teeth to speak of the pink-willy privilege
of discontinued West Virginia coalminers,
who have nothing better to do now
than sit on the porch all day,
blackening their hankies
like aristocrats.