Death To Poets

It's all a damn
rat race
everyone trying to
out-clever
each other
trying to be more ironic
trying to get published
in The New Yorker
or impress Harold Bloom.

Save the bullshit
Please God
give me a
punk rock poet
with a little soul
with an honest pen
and some hurt in his fingers

no amount
of wit
and teaching
can replace
madness
or
make up for
hollow words
infinity
times
zero
after all
is
still
zero.

So,
Harold Bloom
and the rest
of the critics
can fuck off
and get back to
masturbating
to a
Robert Frost
collection.