Some pharisees of poetry are apt
to snap a rectal fuse when hearing said,
"their endless fangled efforts to adapt
their meatless drool they dress as verse are dead."
True beauty is in the being, not the bone.
True bloom is more than petals, bright or pale.
True majesty is perfect, Eden's own,
and eloquence alone won't tell the tale.
High-minded lofty phrasing's not a part
of vague and knotty self-indulgent tripe.
Dramatic whiney howls, torn from the heart
clog arteries, and turns verse into hype.
Mind's hammer can't smash slag to free the gold
if foolish fuel insures the forge runs cold.