Purified Federico García Lorca

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

She thinks that Shakespeares shouldn’t have to shit.

She thinks Keats’ poop should evanesce away

As French perfume, or odes should be blue shit

Inside a Hindu god and then sashay

To some Nirvana made of sacred mist

As sweet as Shalimar when sprayed on skin.

That skin, perhaps our Sappho’s skin, should list

To an eternity sans shitty sin.

She feels Verlaine should not have fuzzy sweat

In armpits.  Imagery and meter, rhyme

And inspiration are divine and jet

More wonderful than merest time.

  She thinks that Shelley’s sonnets evermore

    Are rosebuds never wanting whore.