Your poetry isn’t. No meter, no rhyme
no insights; not attributable to suppurating
bursts of resentment, and I’m.
Metaphor described, not given: shriven of
lines that would elicit the result denied.
Attitudes posed, pictures taken defied;
nothing new or nude: nothing a truth
belied by experience revealed without count.
Literary pimps from publishing houses,
arts councils, money given pile in:
reviews mount up, while literature slowly dies.
- excerpt from The Poetry Hotel, 104 pages, $11.99
The books _——–>My Print books
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