I hate your art.

 

Your moribund, meiotic, preteen art.

 

Your jumping up and down, exuberant,

using words like “crushing” and (I imagine)

not at all feeling the dual meaning of puppy

love in a calloused fist art.

 

I hate your art.

 

Your can it really be sincere, teen beauty

pageant in a rented conference room above

the town sewage treatment center because

that’s what was available art.

 

Your you’re right I really am jealous art.

 

I hate your art.

 

Your plastic, non-chemical, inspiring art.

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