theres much about
every aspect of life
that is a violently alternating antagonism
of expulsion and absorption
love and hate
for half of life is an excretory rite

are we cowed
by subtle prohibitions
permitting only
a charmed
poetic version of the world
that stoops to be a projection
of unreality as superior
like pie in the sky religion
with an unconscious mission
to degrade ****** reality

poets affirmations of vainglory
buried in obfuscation
and ingratiating metaphors
word salad
evoke
poet as coward

unwilling to satisfy
souls in search of
there own buried parts
generating
habitual secret bitterness
in avoidance
of elaborations
deepest inner desires
or worse yet
apathy

is to much of poetry
a guano infested dust bin
of niceties
an abandoned
mouldering hovel
spinster musings
literatures dark corpse ?