Fuck You I’m Not Putting Your Name Anywhere Near My Art Because I Know You Get Off on Seeing Your Name Written on Things


By Samya Abu-Orf

Can I just

castrate you?

You dirty fucking prick

You calloused privileged motherfucker

Daughter fucker

Douche canoe

Dirty diaper of a human being

You spat in our faces,

you rich dickwad,

and we rewarded you for it

Spun your steaming shit into silk

and handed it right back to you


Filth and Scum

line your teeth

wannabe playboy bastard,

letting the gargoyle of debasement

reach its grimy fingers out the hole in your face

and contort its stony shoulder blades

through the creaking door of your skull flap

Dirty old man

with groping hands

Idiot savant

who learned to play the system

that was designed for men like you

by men like you

who raped their slaves

and put hands on their wives,

traced maps with trailed tears


Are we all so surprised?


Don’t cry your white liberal tears at me

Your shock is insulting

If you thought this man was beneath us,

it is because you stand on the gallows

the moment before the planks release from under you,

and fooled yourself into thinking we were just born elevated,

that the noose was just a white collar

The grace of your fall was ruined only by

the Snap.


This ass hat,

puttering pucker-mouthed fool

is simply a symptom of the sickness

that mushroomed when capitalism married government,

and white supremacy ordained

White supremacy sat witness,

wrote the vows,

built the alter,

and breastfed both from their births

the tar of its breast


None of us –

at least not of us with invitations

(they say the bouncers have been strict since, like, 1776)—

spoke up,

though every second of 250 years gave us the opportunity.

So at Tina Fey’s urging,

we all stood around to eat the cake


Ask me how I feel since the election and I will tell you:

much the same.

This country has been murdering me since

midwives were word-wound into witches


I cry for ancient violence

I scream for present justice,

push for a reparation of sorts

a pound of flesh, if you will

Because when Atlas shrugs

we can finally eat the rich

And Paul Ryan seems like he’d taste great

dipped in McDonald’s Limited-Time Promotional Szechuan Sauce




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