can i please just get to something plausible
in this poem

where the readers are like yeah,
this is it sam, you've done it

now you can go home
lay in your bed
and say that to yourself
as you mow the lawn

the grass will move in a way
that resembles

people clapping for the wind
and some iguana

will sprawl his body out in the language;

he'll clap too
and you'll use him

as some sort of finger that pokes at that
******* clichéd darkness

that every ******* guy
has wrote about before

yeah, sorry
your doomer-*** is ******

because there will
always be that one robert lowell character
in your life

who will find you and say:
you must write sylvia,

write about that dumb dark deconstructive
****

which doesn't even make sense because
they were both confessional modernists and i
haven't confessed to anything