Like ants or termites
seem to find safety
I am glutted, I confess,
weak as a calf and worn at the cuff
by the byzantinely abstreuse
passed off by the [congenitally?]obtuse
as value-added … when such absurdly
glorified wares are value denied –
language hacked, ransacked
refried and freeze-dried. Listen:
any effin’ hinny can free-associate –
but few are the donkeys given
to hailing a fellow jackass poet.
And while I’m at it – bards of the past
were not known to suffer monthly
from writer’s block like teenage girls
with pre-menstrual syndrome.
Poets either have something to say or they don’t.
And they are not inclined to stick feathers in a vein
to draw dubious ink. Oh, and should I perchance
write about a semi- in the slick night rain
please do not assume
I am or once was