I believe poetry is one of our purest forms of art, and I like to think I am a master of it, as you can see in the example that follows. I studied extensively with poets in both California and Colorado to hone the delicate craft. As you read, I urge you to find a place within yourself that allows for an appreciation of finer literature. The following poem took months to perfect. I welcome your expressions of emotion following your study of it.
a poem by Jason Bovberg
the fat man chortles wetly in his throat
and squeezes like a bowel movement into his coat
“this’ll learn ya not to fuck wid me!” he brays
the man on the ground ignores him and prays
the door slams shut on the tiny room
sentencing the bound man to untimely doom
but wait, John thinks, if I could only reach that curl of rope!
i’d foil that fat bastard and flee with Elsie to elope
naked and trussed he squirms
glancing only occasionally at the worms
John can’t see the rats approaching his anus
nor the ants crawling his inner thigh toward his penis
but he can hear and feel them, itching and biting,
and the scrabbling sounds make his efforts tense and exciting
he’ll get out of this ridiculous predicament, he knows!
cuz he’s the man in white, dude, the stuff of heroes!
yes, he’ll take fatty’s wife Elsie far away, to Casablanca maybe
and they’ll do all that fun stuff that in nine months squirts out a baby
John reaches long fingers toward the curl
dreaming of Elsie, his stolen girl
the stinging bites of the fire ants blur his vision
and he jerks his muscles in frantic derision
the worms are in a clear plastic dome attached to his belly
they have the ability to burrow, these worms, and turn flesh to jelly
but John’s not afraid, nosiree bob, he’s the hero of this plot!
his quest is to recapture true love, to conquer the Evil in whose clutches he’s caught!
he squeals like a stuck pig when a single rat penetrates his clenched hole
while at the same instant the fire ants begin to ravage his pole
his finger spasms at the rope
and he clings to that glimmer of hope
but now the worms at his stomach are barfing up food and fleshy goo
and John, recognizing the lunch he shared with Elsie, turns an icy blue
“aw jesus let me save the day!” John bleats
but Good will not triumph today, despite heroic feats
not too much later a squadron of diseased rats lines the man’s bloated colon
and his devastated cock, swarmed by hungry ants, is hideously swollen
but the killing stroke arrives at his blackened and distended abs
where toothy worms, not satiated by Elsie’s naked flesh, dive deep like starved crabs
You truly have the heart of a poet—a sick fucking poet.