Roses are red, Let Me Put My Poems in You sucks

Vancouver’s Matty Cox’s shtick is pretty transparent. From the title of his debut anthology of poetry (Let Me Put My Poems In You), to his proclamation of it being a #1 Best Seller (“in his own mind” qualifies the boast), to his own endorsement on the back cover (“A work of pure genius! I laughed so hard I got six pack abs!”), it’s not hard to see where he’s taking this.

The self-proclaimed smut poet published 135 pages of just that — smutty poetry. Cox’s poems are drenched in dirty words and steeped in juvenile ideas. They are often short (10-15 lines or less) and easily digestible. From his dirty takes on the traditional “Roses are red, violets are blue,” to his ode to beer, Cox covers a wide range of subjects.

He shines in poems like “Some People Have Shitty Jobs,” which riffs on a the-worst-day-fishing-is -better-than-the-best-day-workingbumper sticker and in “The World’s Oldest Profession,” which is clearly about prostitution.

Intermingled are stupid poems like “Deep Thoughts,” which is simply the following four lines: “If life were a vacation / Would I still need a vacation / To escape the monotony / Of everyday life?”

“The Grotto” is also another failed effort: “I once knew I [sic] guy named Stan / Who was a big Playboy Fan / We snuck into the Grotto / By driving his auto / Fast past the giant doorman.”

Cox is like a 12-year-old with the vocabulary of a 25-year-old — he’s able to articulate the perverted and juvenile thoughts of a junior high student with voice of someone much older, but also more profane.

At first, this juxtaposition is novel and some of the poems can be quite clever. After a while, though, the novelty wears off.

Most of the subjects of his poems haven’t been widely covered before because they don’t merit covering. To make matters worse, Cox isn’t really all that good at poetry and it becomes obvious that poetry is just a hobby he’s expanded in to a larger project. The rhyme schemes aren’t always solid and he generally lacks the ability to employ more descriptive and engaging language. There is something to be said for simplicity, but in Cox’s case it becomes tired.

The effort is worth examining if the idea of smut poetry appeals to you at first glance, but if it doesn’t, Cox won’t be able to convince you of its value.

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