What a blast, what a sodden farce
of dripping, snotty drivel; an egoistic critic
‘quills’ a leery parse of gooey words
which reek of grandiose and rutted praises,
squeaks of self abuse and candied phrases
snatched from paedophiles deceased,
of rotting places rank, decayed and leeched
for wages, pandered at the foot of verse
we knew was bad before this malefactor
singled out and made the scribing gesture,
wafting hands theatrically,
intending to engender deep
and mystic messages fulfilled in sham
ejaculations of duplex delight.
And we’re supposed
to somersault through gaudy
hoops and beam with gratitude in faked
transports of joy and radiate with glee nacre
rays of iridescent, borrowed energy?
Don’t think so Jack(ass)!
Your ego needs
a healthy smack – and NO,
I won’t read
your fucking poetry!
Pretty please?
© I.D. Carswell
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