Poetry is dead to me, so ignore the irony of all poems forthcoming

poetry and the dog seem dead

I am tired of poetry. It sits on the floor
next to the panting dog. Oh well,
they sigh. Nothing is left. They are
both passed out, both winded
objects, one of which is a
bitch that was never leash-trained,
one of which is poor at running
through rich suburban streets,
one that's sitting still because the room
is so darn dull that even dogs
can't see--imagine a wolf with such
vision and you'll see hunger
eating its way through a flock
of sheep, getting shot up by a
pissed-off shepherd. They are both
full of bullets and they spray
water like watering cans when they
take a drink--big, fat, mammalian cartoons
blasted by some stuttering hunter.