Monday, February 20, 2012

52. The Dead Poets

Society closes up its
doors:
entry is not permitted to
outsiders.

They create a world of
artisans, purported
geniuses,
sipping tea and critiquing
so-and-so's metrics,
etc.

Shameless feminists,
chauvinists, misogynists,
inept politicians, shockers,
potsmokers -
with a limbo-ing sexuality
for good
measure.

Yes, shun me from the
exalted doors:
you, who do not understand
true anguish;
you - who live to see your artless
names in
print:
you -

I am disgusted, revolted
by this lack of Truth,
and this chaotic
struggle for
fame.

You are a cheap wine,
clich├ęd and overwrought
at best,
bubbling at snooty parties in
NY;
you are the sour milk,
curdling in the
August sun.

1 comment:

One Art, to recognize, must be,
Another Art to Praise.

- Emily Dickinson