.
Words, so many words,
****** of meaning—
Flailed at admirers,
So much pulp and filth
On the ****** page—
O how the vain can spill
Blood in an ocean drained
Of salt, in a vast vacuum
Of listeners who only
Aspire to sully themselves.

Is there meaning in followers,
Deaf, drinking in a whine?
Are the stars only gaudy dots
To spill on a black canvass?
The feigned, would be human
Stars fall in the cold, reigning
Drivel of wet, grey words,
That dry in the sand box desert.                      
Spare us the shallow veins,
The caved insights—
Of your shadows.

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.

HP sycophants   .  .  .
Why would someone prop up hacks?        
  .  .  . Idiots praising.