Dante? Dante?! ha ha... we're writing tabloids for the infirmary! we are, given there's so many of us!*

writers tend to note something said  as being memorable...
esp. by someone else - it hardly ever is -
a tombstone insignia of born 1972 died 2021 is more memorable,
but even graves aren't exactly oaks;
you might have had a memorable lunch,
a memorable one-night-stand, a memory of the world cup -
sounds aren't memorable, esp. in
maxim form - you can whistle me a piece of a Mozart
symphony - but you'd expect all poets to treat
all their poems like butterflies,
two weeks in... dead. the miscarriage of poetry
is to give it hope of immortality -
rather than give it a mortality -
but with democracy you'd get too many poets,
and given poetry, democracy is already
a gangrene wound for the medium to express itself -
because some would say that it: over-expresses itself;
and it does, it does, so many of us were kept
in the dark concerning learning of the phonetic encoding
that we warred in the first and second and at Hastings...
now speaking from encoded script was Vogue in
the 20th century, the 20th century, in the 21st?
it doesn't really matter! poetry ought to be the art
of forgetfulness, of tattooing - it ought to be
the steak ate, protein incubated in bicep and all
the criticism ******* out worthy of investigating poetry
further... as, quiet frankly, the secondary throne
of kings, in the Louvratory, never seen a bigger smile
from Mona than as i sat anticipating an aardvark
vacuum nose up my **** giving me the tickle-winkle.