.
In mid airs, dimly,
The ****** birds cluck,
Only flutter useless wings
For they are grounded,
Nor are they beautiful,
O how they feign singing,
Gutteral cluckings only fit
For predators to stalk,
Lame ugly birds prefer
The company of other
Lame, ugly, groundy birds,
With no things, ever, to sing,
Only to preen and beak
For scraps under trees,
Where winged songbirds
Lit by the flighty sun
Do truly sing.

Flowers so rare and fine,
Missing from this dry world,
Lost, unwatered, unseen, yet
No ones and none despaired,
They then planted their garish
Seed in blot sun, most sodden,
Soppy soils sprayed which fell
On the plainest, most commoner
Grounds, such fertile dirt, wrought,
Then, all who came to view where
But gaggles of proud mediocrity
Who arrived to revel and preen,
Unjust, they remade this earth,
Once lively, to be lame, what
Celebrations they now need
What praises they do crave,
Sadly, they could not know,
A flower for the weeds.

There are ******* near,
Who fain love yet disappear
When cool sun is a light.

Hello Poetry, mediocre
Is their way, do not play,
Let posers hang each other.

Weakly poets pretend to be
Relevant, yet, never amend
Spend days saying me, ME!

See the fiefdoms offered
Yet, held close to shames,
Let awful set each to flame,

In hollow, with an empty page,
So many useless words dredged,
Wounded egos pathetically end.

There are ******* near,
Who fain love yet disappear
When cool sun is a light.

Hello Poetry, mediocre
Is their way, do not play,
Let posers hang each other.

Weakly poets pretend to be
Relevant, yet, never amend
Spend days saying me, ME!

See the fiefdoms offered
Yet, held close to shames,
Let awful set each to flame,

In hollow, with an empty page,
So many useless words dredged,
Wounded egos pathetically end.

Today, a poem should be palatable, cute
As a Kiwi fruit,

Dumb
As a horse battalion's scudding run,

Strident as out of tune horns
Of basement bands where the gloss has grown—

A poem should be bloodless
As the slight of words.

A poem should be film of ocean brine
As the reel unwinds,

Cleaving as the gear greases
Spoke by spoke the light smearing breeze,

Blowing, to the temple outhouse
Exalting all the ****** functions—

A poem should be not true:
Equal too.

For all the history of vanity
An empty room and a bass relief

For lust
The keening masses and no light above the stream

A poem should not be
But mean.

Little yellow finch  .  .  .
No bird listens to her song,
  .  .  .  Only cat entranced.

Dull grey starlings come,
Parade on gardens not won,
  .  .  .  Never too soon— gone.

Glow bugs chew up home  .  .  .
**** branches climbing to sun,                                                    
  .  .  .  Bark at base of tree.