You may think, during the course of this poem, when I become all ranty
That my agitated persona is, in fact, not an agitated persona at all, but
simply one which is knowingly ironic;
That behind the raging bile,
There is a charming and engaging smile;
That I don’t genuinely despise the targets of my merciless and hateful
And really, I’m laughing with you, behind the sonic façade of this
furiously enraged incantation.
But you’d be wrong.
This is a poem in which I shall be genuinely complaining,
About poets who step into the public arena having studiously avoided any
notion of being entertaining;
Who spew forth lines which they wrongly believe are both intensely
important and emotionally draining,
But which are, in fact, dazzlingly inept.
We’ve all heard these poets; we’ve heard them, and we’ve wept:
Tears of frustration,
Tears of agitation,
Tears at being subjected to their symbolic masturbation;
But tears which we never cry, because we’re too polite
To stand up and say: your poetry’s shite!
For these poets, whose attempts at poetic refulgence
Begin – and end – with nauseating self-indulgence;
Whose poetry has all of the charm,
Of an essay on self-harm;
For them, with their pretentiously opaque and useless poetic
I have written a set of performance poetry instructions,
To contemplate before the next occasion when they unwittingly bore an
audience into catatonic submission.
That’s right – this poem is a bit of free tuition,
From a patience-sapped poet on a do-or-die mission.
I’ve made it pretty simple for them to follow these instructions, although
I’m pretty sure that they won’t,
Indeed, it couldn’t be any simpler; it’s just one word: don’t.