Enough of angry fixes, ***** streets incoherent poems and arrhythmic beats, drug-addled mystics and feminized fools who compose no further than breaking rules. Junior Dadaists, after the fact; dull poetry’s second, third, and fourth act. Actual poetry exists for the page and ought to be able to last an age. Real poems are NOT composed on the tongue, as are the ravings of the angry young. Diarrhetic voidings, awash in words that rain down upon the poetic herds are not the same as life-giving waters fit to refresh our sons and daughters.
**** it up with your existential vacuum from off the floor of that San Fran backroom.
PROMPT 28: try your hand at a meta-poem of your own (Meta-poem = a poem about poetry)