F451 (transposed blackout poem)

You ask “why” and wind up unhappy.

The poor girl’s better off dead. Queer ones like her

don’t happen often. We nip them in the bud early.

We give people contests remembering words or names or

cram them full of noncombustible data so they feel stuffed,

absolutely brilliant. They’ll feel they’re thinking,

they’ll be happy.

Don’t give them philosophy or sociology together.

Most men can feel bestial.

To hell with it. Bring on your clubs,

your daredevils, your sex and heroin,

more of everything to

sting me loudly.

I don’t care, I just entertain.

Lauren Tocco