i consider the magpie
to be an emblem
of all things teutonic;
having savoured
the feeling of herr doktor -
and salvaged one
poor soul to the hands
of death-anaesthetic;
i don't know why -
i remember the closure
of the 20th century
with me playing with toys,
with g.i. joes and such like:
why this constant nagging
and undermining of
poetry, why this constant
desire to make poets
seem infantile?
     to me? these writers of
fiction, these scribblers,
these chickens thinking
they're hawks...
  these chicken scratchings
they call novels...
reminds me of playing
with plastic toys...
  namely?
                puppeteering...
little scheming-mongrels of
feeling... novelists are...
   i stopped playing with toys
a long time ago...
but these "children" have
matured to abstract their
toys...
  now they have characters...
but they're still the same
puppeteers, like i was:
aged 10.
oh no... this is the point
where poetry says it's grand
thank you *******!
   i can accept philosophy
undermining this art...
but with a philosophical appreciation
of the art: in the form of heidegger,
coupled with a journalistic
attack on the art...
                    enough!
you ****-sodden-****-soaked
                 pseudo-tongue-meisters!