vexed
by that lugubrious animal
The Poet's Voice.
You know it.
As it takes a piece of beauty
and rends it
piece
by
piece
with unexplained
pauses
and odd rushes of breathless heartless pointless babble
so unlike a brook that I can brook no reading
that treats its subject so harshly.
Poems are precious
not precious,
as poets recite them.
They are lively.
They should move with a natural flow,
like a happy creek,
not creak along
like an old man
with narcolepsy.
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