“New Poetry is bad” by Anna Hilsman

My friend says he doesn’t like poetry,
unless it’s about a man talking to the moon.
True love has crawled into
the wormy
dirt, and dissolved in the loam
as Bayer’s
aspirin in water.
He thinks that the
empty and high
conversation
between
Man and Moon
that desire drags from the
parted lips of Man
is the only true
confession of love.

Anna is a horse girl at heart, does standup comedy when she’s not writing angsty poetry, and loves reading comedians’ autobiographies. She swears she’s mentally stable and her dream job is to live in a school bus and make pottery.