by Crapra, Log, & Toylit
Source: Brass Tacks Press

Crap poetry is what happens to good poetry after you eat it and you’re left with nothing but a sack of appealing gelatinous goop swelling in a storm of indecision. There’s no place for conclusion, destination, evolution. Just beginnings of turds, partially formed words, badly drawn birds, half-eaten curds, and YOU. What is the redeeming value of the dying screams of an animal except to inspire guilt and make children cry? The Dadaists abandoned reason. We abandon hygiene. Farts for forever!

The world is devolving into the raw sewage slush of a psychological maelstrom. Classicism is the faggy flower of culture, fragrant formalism for fidgety fags. Decadence is the dykish fruit of culture, faggier still and addicted to painkillers. Crap is what’s left of the fruit of culture after all the nutrition has been sucked out of it and it’s been ejected out the anus. If money is the sexuality of the dead and your hair is a tunnel into the past then we have more poetry up our asses than exists in the entire Puniverse.

We are the mighty poetic proctologists, the conquistadors of the mighty brown-out of civilization. As crap poets, our biggest job is to not be watching television. As long as we’re not watching television, we’re winning. We want to poison our own minds, thank you very much. Because poetry is the least important thing, it’s the most important thing. Like the Taoists say, “Know the big, but stick to the small.” Similarly, “Know talent, but stick to the crap.”

Cough. Catastrophe. Christ-Consciousness. Retards. Raunchiness. Rage. Apathy. Androgynes. Astroglide. Prickle. Prosthetic. Pucker up!

To say that a poem stinks is to make the synesthetic leap from words on paper to a sensual experience. In crap poetry there’s no such thing as writer’s block. Our motto is “Just push through.” There’s nowhere left except failure. Our only regret is our failure to destroy all our talent.

Why wheedle the approval from some fucking intellectual asshole? We’re the shit!