Cleaving Sylvia Plath

Douchebag Daddy’s Girl
—for Sylvia Plath

You don’t douche, you don’t douche
Any more, Daddy’s Little Girl—
Daddy’s dead like an old black shoe
All those years catting around—
Doing it on the Library Floor…

Dirty Douchebag Daddy
You died before you even died—
Full of Shit, Bag of Hot Air,
Grisly Old Prick with one big
Old Princeton IOU

Douchebag Daddy’s girl—
Dragged by Rexroth Daddy-O
From the Cow Pastures of mean
Old Minnesota to Santa Barbara
Looking for a little Tenure

Douchebag Daddy’s 4 Wives—
How they all Failed you Bad
The Third One sick of you
Ditching you for a young
Handsome New Mexico Poet

Douchebag Daddy’s Girl—
They say your Daddy had
Dozens of Blonde Blue-Eyed
Girlfriends on the side only
Too ready to Tongue the Root

Mean Old Douchebag Daddy—
How he hated the Beatniks so
Horning in on the Action with
Their Booze, Dope and North
Beach Tacky Sex Orgies
There goes Sapphic beauty—
Down the ugly Douchebag drain
All the queer Greek and Roman
Classics like campy Catullus and
Sextus Propertius the Prick…

Ginsberg, Kerouac, Corso—
Illiterate East Coast Pretenders
To the Throne of Dame Poesy…
How you hated all those Brutes
Douchebag Daddy-O…

Your San Francisco Haunts—
Invaded by dirty Hippies next
Brainless denizens and children
Of the Suburban Night of the
Living Douchebag Dead…

So, Douchebag Daddy-O—
They pulled you out of the Sack
And put you through the old
Rack and Screw Routine down in
The Dungeon of Edgar Allan Poe

They pulled out your Chain—
Like a telephone cord by the Root,
They rattled your Bourgeois Cage
Bad enough to make Rilke’s Panther
Addicted to Prozac and Madness

UCLA hated your guts, Daddy-O—
Gave you one more year after the
Ungrateful antiwar scummy drop-outs
Burned to the ground the Temple of
Their Success—The Bank of America

America drove a Big Black Stake—
Through your fat old IWW Commie
Black Heart, Douchebag Daddy-O,
The Villagers never much liking you
Vampire Poets very much anyway

Faggy bloodsucker Whitman—
Molesting all those cute vulnerable
Union soldier boys, Grungy Ginsberg
Sucking off Neil Cassady and then
Bragging about it in awful HOWL…

Ferlinghetti making it worse—
With City Lights Bookstore and all
Those nice little Pocket Book Series
Poetry chapbooks, so garish, vain,
Sarcastic and disgustingly lewd!!!

There you were Douchebag Girl—
Not exactly the place for a nice
Little Emily Dickinson type like you,
Your pussy full of canonical resurgent
Feminist Douchebag Propaganda…

Full of poisonous Big Daddy hate—
Campy caricatures of George Grosz…
Distorted smirk of Weimar cabaret,
Skulking around like some crummy
Creep from The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari…

Giddy Douchebag Girlfriend—
Friend of all the Rich and Famous,
All the Fallen Gods of John Keats’
Lovely Hyperion, all the listless
Dead and old Saturn sybarites…

Here we are stuck with you—
Kvetching like a louche old Leda
Seduced by the Swan-God in the
Reeds like Yeats said, mastered by
The Brute Blood of Big Daddy-O?

Here we are glued hip to hip—
Ghoulishly joined by your busybody
Mean old cul-de-sac, our Passport
Down into your Douchebag Dis—
How you hate Camille Paglia!!!

Now you’re our Douchebag Queen—
Patiently cultivating your literary
And Horoscope desires, dissolving
Big Daddy’s Face into your own
Anorectic Ariel Achtung Ache!!!

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