Love Plumber
Ah, the words of love... Je t'adore. Ti amo. Te quiero (Taco Bell y tu, Senorita mucho caliente!). If you were Swedish and in love, you'd say to your beloved, "Jag aelskar dig." Isn't that sweet? It's almost like, "I dig you." If you were Srilankan, you'd probably say, "Mama oyata arderyi." Serbians and Serbocroatians say, "Volim te," but if you were Slovak, you'd say, "Volim ta."

If you were Thai, you'd say, "Khao raak thoe." I'd be careful to sound affectionate when using that one-it sounds insulting to me, kind of like, "You rank ho!" In Japanese, the words your heart are searching for could be "Watakushi-wa anata-wo ai shimasu," but you've got to talk fast if you want to cram that toe-tingler into a tender moment. You Klingons out there can get right to the point with "SoHvaD vIghajtaH," Germans have the efficient "Ich liebe dich" (I ain't touching that one), and Bavarians have the creamy "I mog di narrisch gern."

In any language, love is indeed a splendid thing. However, when love turns not-so-splendid, it's the stuff of some spectacularly bad language. And I don't mean swears (although they are, I've discovered, an intricate part of it). I mean poetry.

Any writer will tell you that when emotions are running high, words flow fast from the heart to the pen, completely bypassing the brain. Luckily, most writers have the sense to erase those words once they've calmed down. Others, however, do not. Others post them on the internet.

Today, I offer you a selection of poems written by angry young men who've had their souls cleaved by the icy blade of betrayal. Treachery, thy name is woman! And woman, thy name is...well, never mind. I'll let the poets themselves tell you.

Is every break-up poem "just another somebody done somebody wrong song?" Certainly not. That would be like saying every angry young man is like every other angry young man, which would only make them all angrier. And then they'd write more poetry. And none of us wants that.


While these poems were all posted on line and signed by their authors, I have abbreviated their names to keep it all from getting too personal. After all, if a poem is good, it speaks for and to legions.



Suicidal Cunt
By D. D.


The Beautiful Bitch is Depressed and
Seeing a Psychologist.
Maybe suicidal.


Oh, well,
Goodbye!
Have a Nice Slice.

When she forgot I existed,
I already imagined myself
drowned beneath a pond
and thought it was Beautiful and somewhat
Romantic,
in a weird way.

So if she kicks the bucket
I will also think
that's Beautiful
and clip out her Obituary
for posting on my Bulletin Board.

When guests comment on the strange artifact,
I'll say Oh
that was some crazy bitch I once knew...
playing Cool -n- Non-Chalant...

but black flowers will blossom in my mind
as I remember her
and it will actually be Classical and Timeless
like the Crypt of the Vampire Queen.


Wow. Give me a moment, my breath has been taken away. Such passion! It's clear this poem is far deeper than the pond the author imagined he'd "drowned beneath." Like that pond beneath another pond, this poem is multi-layered and impossible to grasp using only common sense. On the one hand, he denies the extent of his his anguish ("playing Cool -n- Non-Chalant..."), but on the other hand, he knows his bravado is a farce, and he is eternally enslaved to his "Vampire Queen." This "Bulletin Board," then, must be the battlefield on which his warring emotions are broadcast to the world. In fact, the poem itself becomes that "Bulletin Board." Yes, this one is sure to haunt you, "like black flowers" blooming in your mind.


Two Years Later
By A. S.


Life is a battlefield
Of choices made
And choices waiting
To be made,
Even if your choice
Is not choose.

And I have made
Some choices
That I sometimes regret--
Like opening up to
A total stranger,
Pretending to be
An aspiring writer,
Who took my heart
And stepped
All over it,

While I tried
To believe that
There was
Something greater
Between us.

The only thing
That I found is
That some people
Do not live
Their lives in the open,

Hiding some dirty
Past secrets that
Bring on guilt
And shame.

And they try to flush
Their past
Down the toilet, but
The lies just keep
Building up
And the toilet backs up,

And the plunger won't work
This time.

I wanted to be your lover,
Not your plumber to help
Your lies from interfering
With your social life.

Even back then
You kept saying
That you loved me
But referred to me
As some friend of
Your nonexistent
Norwegian husband,
And you never wanted
Anyone to know about
Your fatherless children,

As if your children
Are a source of shame.

And all I wanted was love
And openness.

But all I got were lies,
Lies and more lies.

Well, it's been two years
Now since you wrote me
That love poem, calling me
Your soft and wild
Lover and a clutter in
Your pink laws.

But all the softness
And wildness have gone
Somehow, after I returned
To Connecticut, dissolved
In all the fantasies
Of some ideal love.

And all I have are just
Old love letters and
Pictures of you and
Your children on my PC,
Fading in hollow dreams
That I could ever be a part
Of your family.

Well, go ahead and
Pretend that we never met,
Cringing about my
Bad breath, dandruff,
Receding hairline,
And social awkwardness,
While hiding behind the name
Of your nine years younger
Adolescent husband.

I suppose he's good at
Fixing your computer
Troubles because all your
Big writing career
Revolves around
Internet gossip and
All the things
You'd like others
To believe.

Well, I don't take
Myself as seriously--
I once believed in us
And our future together
Only to have my books,
Dedicated to you,
Thrown in the garbage
And have you deny
Ever knowing me.

As Bill Clinton
once said:
"I did not have sex
With that woman,"
Even though the
Evidence pointed
To the contrary.

Well, it's been
Two years since
I've been "that man"
That you choose not
To acknowledge,
And I'm taking my
Life back piece
By piece, refusing
To trash whatever
Tender moments
That we had together.

And we did have them,
Darling.

So, go ahead, and
Pretend that you
Never loved me,
Creating more
Lies and fictions.

It doesn't matter.

All that matters
Is that I'm true
To myself and to
My heart.


December 15, 2005


This poem saddens me, most of all because I wish the title had been "Love Plumber" instead of "Two Years Later." I can almost smell the salty brine of Norway...or is it the author's "bad breath?" Quoting a former President in a poem is always risky, but in this case, I'm sure you agree the risk paid off. What a tangled web we weave with "a clutter" of "pink laws." I think the moral at the end of the poem is good, if not a bit trite. It's not as haunting as "Suicidal Cunt," but it's definitely more revealing, and scores points for including the date it was written.

Well, that's all the time we have for today's "Angry Young Man Poetry Round-Up." Keep your eye out for our future feature, "Whiny Women Writing About Lost Love and Rain."

Auf Wiedersehen!