In the midst of many a critic.

Many a cynic that spit acidic cries

Onto your pen marks written in the dark.

And burn your paper with the fearful lies.

The cries of one so trapped inside the smoke and vines

Of metric form... Of -dashes and functional /slashes.

Of letters so centered and shaped like a diamond

So that when he finds them

He may understand... decipher, milk and grind them

In his hand.

Make ashes of your metaphors

Saying, "You did not leave a set up for

the blah and blah.

And it's because YOU did this here that EYE don't understand."

Oh god... get off your pristine land

And probe a little more these poems' innards.

Maybe then you'll see:

Behind the foggy lines lies all the fire dripping with desire

That will offer all the links to chain these words

Into coherent pictures:

Structure from a vaguely worded yet eerily potent fear

And not some Sonneteer

Hell-bent on cutting up his scripture with a grey, anal-retentive scissor.

Form begets a higher norm, yes.

But it is not a selling point all on its own.

A writing lacking anger, fear, and sickest mental angles

Serves only to feed its worth through but a checklist

A scanning eye that probes your little nodes for a misplaced lie

Or a lowercase i.

Or an

Abrupt br-

-eak to a word





With your head.


Over window dressing.

Dropping all that seems just slightly general

When dropping all the logical will leave you basking in its blessing.

Ah here I lay, confessing

To those souls that seek distressing

Oh so fruitless...

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