Poetic Tough Love

You may think, during the course of this poem, when I become all ranty 

   and demonic,

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 

   evisceration;

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 

   constructions,

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.