Monday, March 27, 2006


Originally uploaded by alflamont.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
No. For sonnets I hear, are quite gay.

As in fact, is most poetry. I don’t mean “Gay” homosex, I mean “Gay”…well gay. My major issue with poetry is that too often it’s inflicted on the unsuspecting. If you were a teenager and experienced any sort of angst, then no doubt you dabbled in poetry. What of it? Have you reread your deep introspective words? Have you gone back to that mental state and cringed in horror at your pubescent self? Good god! Why must people continue the sophomoric practice of shoving their quatrains down other’s throats? I will admit to some exceptional poetry, masters who manage to paint pictures vividly enough as to inspire, but isn’t most poetry in its essence, absolute ass? Doesn’t adult poetry (Yeah, let’s just dismiss the ranting of children altogether and get to the meat of this) always reek of smugness and literate snobbery? I suppose more than poetry itself, I am opposed to the poet. In a moment of exuberance, we may all commit some rhyme to paper. However, it is the self- centered smug brute, under the guise of depth that erupts his babblings for the rest of us. In the end, reading other people’s poetry is like smelling their farts. You are glad they feel comfortable enough around you to release it, but wish they hadn’t anyway. Please keep it private.

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