seldom do judges side with them;
they’d rather have some elitist fuck try to be clever –
making metaphors for their machinations.
A lot like the early Harvey Milk,
we all know what we’re against in writing.
But what, exactly, are we for?
Scanning the streets for a good pick up,
but poetry is not a whore.
It will not be screwed by popular consensus anymore.
It is the ugly truth
buttered so beautifully we are willing to face it.
Yet we get bored of it.
Euphemisms, are vapor cigarettes for those who smoke solely to die.
Wistful of
no love, no rhymes no cheesy compilation of complaints.
Have we gone too far in our construction of boundaries?
Always avoid alliteration.
Are we making poetry a crappy cut-out of what the esteemed want to see?
Are we making writing washed-up syntactic patterns of what the noobs need to follow?
A hand-me-down style that happens to still look “cool” to the kids;
a societal expectation the hipsters don’t protest on Tumblr;
a silent cycle that we’ve allowed to slip through the most critical fingers;
the systematic aspect of art,
causing literary devices to essentially become the Easter eggs of modern work.
It is
the promoted arrangement of vague, vile reflections of those thoughts that make us happy,
because we don’t have to think them up –
the Zen stupidity we embrace.
Glorified, forged feelings to which we pretend we relate.
