poem: i misspelled the name of the artist and had to google it

do you want to know why
the academics are elitists hated
thatcher have politics like sex
fuck their candidates roughly
in campaign emails and
supporting media; they know
inside their flower garden
skulls ironic skeleton
eyeholes, thinking nothing
everything all at once
all like nothing, my mind

is a frida kahlo painting, it is derrida
it is torn and deconstructed
and “torn,” a 1997 Natalie
Imbruglia pop hit

nominated for a grammy, among
other things and likely
remembered more than you
the slim smart woman writing
critical lens between the gothic
and another text the supporting
text the theory according to according
to we stand on the shoulders
on giants, but all i want

is late mornings and boys
with certain smiles, eyes. they are
not aware of frida kahlo beyond maybe
the eyebrows and the tropical
eating monkey but you

are fucking stupid if you think
you are better than them.

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