Goblin Sick Dissimilarity

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

What passes now for poetry is in

The blankest sense not poetry at all.

This simulacram grows, a goiter’s sin

Against poetics, sin as poseur tall

On stilts and blind to where it feels it goes.

Some midget phrases gangle down the page.

Supposedly a verse on each line grows

To who knows what?  A freak inside a cage

Has been released, a dwarf with twisted ribs

And bowed in legs and stumbles wrong, along

Because modernity now writes with nibs

On drunken pens.  They kill tradition’s song.

  The Poetry Society and such

    Crimped Gollums walk with invalidic crutch.

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