that poetry is lame.
Poets are pompous braggadocios
with only a knack for pretentious word-play.
They only ever speak words
with eighty-thousand meanings
that you have to struggle to find
while wading through the prickly diction
and viscous sludge they call imagery
(the stuff that clogs the senses
and the optical illusion that confuses the eyes).
I mean, seriously.
Do they write paintings
or carve memories into print?
Who the hell do they think they are?
With their bombastic proclamations
on the meditations
of the metaphysical
and their fatiguing dissertations
on their sad, pathetic little lives
filled with misery and woe....
How old are you people?
What, are you guys, like, three?
Crying and wailing and moaning and keening and screaming...
those are just different ways of saying
Oh, and already you are so wise and learned in the ways of the world.
The obnoxious lot of you,
loquacious and verbose,
spouting by the ass-load
verse and prose
using literary devices like they were hardware tools
that had just been pulled
out of the ass-crack of literature.
Wake up and smell the smog-choked fucked up modern age.
Poetry is lame.