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Indelicate is he who loathes
The aspect of his fleshy clothes, --
The flying fabric stitched on bone,
The vesture of the skeleton,
The garment neither fur nor hair,
The cloak of evil and despair,
The veil long violated by
Caresses of the hand and eye.
Yet such is my unseemliness:
I hate my epidermal dress,
The savage blood's obscenity,
The rags of my anatomy,
And willingly would I dispense
With false accouterments of sense,
To sleep immodestly, a most
Incarnadine and carnal ghost.
i hate poets
i hate poets and their in-to-na-tion
i hate their formulas for the way words should sound
i hate their bookshelves packed with collected works of ts eliot or whoever they're supposed to like

i hate you

i hate that if you publish a book the world is so ******* interested in how you feel but when someone in the street is screaming their heart out about god or politics or just being nonsensical the world is more interested in putting them away

i have heard more beautiful, insightful, and entertaining diatribes from drunkards, fools, idealists, and madmen than from any ******* poet
this isn't sarcasm. this is reality. i don't care about your odes to broken hearts, introversion, and universality. none of you practice what you preach.

— The End —