1

There is a red flag in many new style trends;
They represent a confusion of values.
It is like weakness, when they go crazy.
It stems from a basic rejection of the truth, weakness,
       When the self-proclaimed wise, who read the New York Times
       Fail completely to perceive the signs of the times.

2

Dionysus told his maenads to rip the thing apart.
The goat was thrown into the midst of their trance.
We think we understand them, but we don’t.
They only knew some bleating thing entered their trance.
       And they sang something like this: Oooh baby!
       We delirious maenads ripped apart our own baby!

3

These weak-*** patriarchs be hatin’.  Let us twerk.
Someday the wokeness shall prevail, and we shall sleep.
The orchard will wither. True poetry shall rise
And twerking be seen as something true and deep.
       And all we inflicted upon your culture
       Shall be esteemed as truly authentic culture.

In elvish days of dwarven lore,
Where Érandūliendor flowed,
In times before the ancient war,

       A Lit. professor once geeked out.

The Lord of Darkness in his lair
Sent forth from his grotesque abode
His wingéd minions of the air;

And sorcery, both bright and black
As chanted low, in ancient rhyme,
Made all the eldritch runestones crack.

       Where’s my **** phone? Honey, you seen my phone?

And so the curse of Gôrgoron
Conjured before the dawn of time
Was loosed by Åthylmírmindon!

Whose epic stand against the foes
At Beremöthelenduíl
Wrought fabled fire from winter snows !

T’was thus the hill upon the ridge
Of Flõrÿmandðlemboríl
Caused me to go and check my fridge—

       Hey honey, if you’re going shopping could you pick me up a
        six-pack?Now where’s my elvish glossary? Thought it was on
        the armrest. **** this freaking deadline…

Art history matters. New Master’s degrees
Lead to dull innovation in poetry. Please
Try to write us a poem where meaning is plain
And no MFA patriarch needs to explain.

a statue carved by Bernini/a plate of eggs painted by Velázquez  

Jane, dear Jane, you’re a porcelain idol.
The time has arrived for your verse to unbridle
Itself and reveal some slight traces of life;
We know you are smart, but that dull butter-knife
Of your poetry, smearing the references ’round
Is like Sylvia Plath/Gertrude Stein/Ezra Pound…

personal pan pizza with unlimited free toppings

Those weird sudden line breaks confuse us, in fact,
And the rarefied dishes you name-drop get cracked
On the floor of your poetry, leaving us shards,
Risking splinters for muses and mystified bards.

my arm breaks off  like the shell/of a freshly-filled cannoli

You deadpan in monotone, stunningly brave,
But your tortuous verses go straight to the grave.
Academic obscurantists murmur and nod
As they lower the corpse of your work in the sod…

carelessly thrown baby/a designer toilet cistern

You ought to re-frame and then tighten your lines,
So replete with Old Masters and euro-trash wines:

(…weirdly-named liqueurs in a Rococo  palais)

Why would you not, then, aspire to coherence,
Dismissing the need for white male interference?
Your verses cry out for some fatherly guidance
To try and make sense of your history of silence.

I’m off to Bermuda
While you’re up the creek!
I cruise like old money;
You float like a freak.

As you steer between rocks
In that ****** canoe,
You’re a maritime nuisance
Obstructing the view.

My luxury vessel
Steers clear of the sharks;
You paddle and fulminate,
Studying Marx.

Your dugout is leaking;
I’m greasing the skids.
The dividends pay out
to bankroll my kids.

My profits accrue
While you seethe at your bosses.
You rail at the system—
I minimize losses.

I cruise into port.
Our hotel is reserved…
Your bitter resentment
Means dinner is served.

Departures are blissful;
We glide into harbors
And dine amidst hollyhocks
Under the arbors.

The banquet is served:
An idyllic location—
But you merely murmur
In disapprobation.

So scratch my maid’s Tesla
(or blow up a dealership…)
Rattle your chains
While insulting my captainship.

I’m by the pool—
You can splash in your gutter.
I’ll leave you a tip
For some bread with your butter.