“A person who discreetly farts in an elevator is not a divine being, and a man needs to know this.” ―Robert Bly
“My life failed on the very day I was born.” ―Robert Bly
His poetastry sucks ink
and rorschachs paper:
it’s a windbag, a kite without
a string, prose in broken lines,
camp and cant, bilge, blather, and poppycock.
Its diction is a harlequin with a thesaurus.
He misinterprets dead poets
whose sharp skills scalp his sacrilege.
He’s a shyster ego-tripping
up the ladder of the layman’s ignorance
of what poetry is all about.
His fame lionizes lame ideas.
His thoughts burn like a straw fire.
He’s a tin man yellowbricking Oz.
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