ILL POET

The map of a thousand inky worms; an unfathomable deep of wordy concerns but we’ll hold on to beacons; our symbolic terms; those obvious words that our hearts often yearn.

Oh vile uncertainty! How our minds do return, Oh you vague, ugly signs, yes for you we do spurn! But in sickly anxiety our brains they will churn ‘til we build up a fortress that’s deformed and infirm.

Your castle of words is crumbling down and into the moat your symbols will drown, you should dredge out the mould and recover the crown and bestow it (ill poet) to forgotten nouns.

Why laugh at the thought that poetry’s dead when all you do is repeat what you’ve read and the literary spider is spreading its web but you don’t seem to realise it’s captured your head.

Is it lexical choice, or your love for James Joyce that has stopped you from having original voice? How absurd that you drown out of arrogant choice!



And we take it in turns to repeat what we’ve learnt, how we love that precision of shared, ailing terms, but when will we see the inbred is infirm? We will die in this moat ‘less innovation returns.