Sam Smith got up in his red suit and pronounced that we should all be ourselves, so here’s me, writing poems about the Grammys.
Stream of Consciousness To The Greatest Of All Time, Kanye West:
Dear Kanye, my grandmother used to repeat the old proverb “Better to be thought a fool than to open one’s mouth and remove all doubt” but your mouth keeps opening somehow a jaw unhinging like a sorority girl vomiting into a Delta toilet at the end of the night your words so repetitive as you flirt with an upside down spotlight which would be a good metaphor for whatever it is that you think you do if only you wrote metaphors or even understood them instead of purely literal lyrics and not rhyming at all in this song that you’re so proud of writing all by yourself like a big kid.
But at least you auto-tuned the whole thing live.
Note To Miley Cyrus From The Wrecking Ball:
All I wanted was a year of bashing buildings,
swinging from cranes on enormous steel lines, smashing through
walls, bricks, maybe a few 1960s apartment buildings.
But you brought me into your studio,
skidged yourself on top of me like
a sea cucumber slit open by a fixed blade, the
wet suck, something I will not get over for a long time.
They say that Robin Thicke pedophiled you on national TV last year, but
you may as well have offered me candy and puppies as I was loaded
heavy into your van, the naked wet of your vehicle and now
you’re a finalist for Best Pop Vocal Album of the year?
Haiku On Old-School Performances:
and Madonna? Why are we
exhuming the dead?
Kim Kardashian On The Red Carpet, A Cinquain:
batting eyelashes, turning
in your golden bathrobe,
To The Red Carpet Itself:
How did you get this job, not green or blue but
Purple is a royal color and could be the carpet of choice
for stars to stumble across, bubbly and buzzing from limo shots,
or almost stars to walk upon and hope for interviews, cameras, microphones,
anything to reflect their own images.
If you want to catch a raccoon, drive 2.5-inch nails, angled down, into a coffee can
and place something shiny in the bottom: A silver dollar, a bracelet, a small mirror.
The raccoon, masked and striped as if he’s dressed up for a special occasion
will insert his hand, grasp the sparking object, and won’t let go,
even after he discovers that he can’t remove his closed fist from the trap.
Never will he relinquish the shiny piece of something that he is holding
even if he realizes that he has been caught in the open, exposed, looking like a fool.
(Thanks to Gavin Marsonette for some inspiration. Hashtag.)