Poetry Ick

I hate poetry.

Always so edgeless and vague, 

its clouds arising,

emotion moving in rivers of wind, 

the heart always in tiny pieces, 

fire always burning in it’s loins, 

glued by malaprops and greek references - 

Did you know ‘you're the apple of my eye?’ 

With your ‘willow trees aloft?’ 

Please…

‘Fuck off.’

Toss your word salad elsewhere!

It’s contents amuck,

I feel nothing at all! 

Not even a shuck…

But once more tell me,

how the stars align,

with the 7 o'clock sunset,

through the passenger side,

and how the glare of the horizon reflects your soul, 

while the fabric of the universe, 

moves your feathered pen,

inscribing gobbledygook that

renders nothing

at all.

I bet the gates of heaven were crafted by her very ribcage, right?

She was dancing to life’s symphony and felt infinite, didn’t she?

What does that mean for goodness sake?!

If I wanted balderdash

I’d read Finnegans Wake!

For at least Joyce wrote, 

for at least he tried, 

to bleed on the page,

to die every night…

To really write.