Writing poetry I am picturing in my head a television commercial on pain relief by Guillaume Morissette

womanless on women’s day.
kissing my friends
for anguish shame delight,
their faces a hidden compartment
to stash tapes of home-recorded flute songs
whose lyrics articulate
disjointed, taboo life outlooks.

my ass is expanding to devour me,
will grow to the size of a mediocre sunset
whose picture will be used as someone’s wallpaper.
the warm, subtle light rays of my ass
obscured by a forest of desktop icons,
shortcut links to secret folders,
a place to hide
amongst unset emails
and reflect on why things do not matter,
only their contribution to survival matters.

praying by a small statue of myself
for my friends to write not poems
but essays on self-annihilation
which is the same thing just more frantic,
and then the unprovoked epiphany
that my facebook account is a third-person write-up of myself.

my ass is an irresistible force.
the faces of friends are irresistible forces also.
friends don’t kiss, continually resist kissing
by having study dates across large tables
to write papers
on the relation between self-awareness and social value
while knowing
the size of the table prevents kissing.

my job as a poet
is to bore myself
though no one ever helps the writer
which is okay
since the writer’s primary motivation
is to have better conversations with himself.

fascination with themes and characters
and never the abstract as attractive,
the effect of googling obscure poets on the mind
and bundle their work together
to discover the lone unexpressed sentence in poetry
which reads,
‘I can never write a poem in french.’