Verse dedicated to facileness, to saying nothing. <br />We too yearn to be abstract and obscure. We will dwell <br />on our feelings and life, neither worthy of contemplation. <br />Yes, today’s poets are consumed with their nothingness. <br />We will play with those who do not understand what they <br />read, assuming it must be brilliant. Clarity will be our enemy. <br />Form will be our toy, a rebellion against convention, <br />clutter that will in turn be torn asunder. If we get it right, <br />decorate our banal utterances with gaudy ribbons <br />of pretentious bogus intellectuality, we might win a <br />distinguished prize or be published amidst advertising <br />in a lofty periodical. Free verse, blank verse, spastic verse. <br />To hell with the aching masses. Death to the oral tradition. <br />Scrub the poets affecting song. Poetry, the people’s historic <br />passion, torn from common body and mind by an effete elite. <br />We obsessive didactics converse only with one another, <br />coo and bask in subverted inverted cleverness. <br />Poetry written for poets, debilitating incest eroding the soul <br />distinquished professors of complicated pompous <br />tedious nonsense, designated with authority to be art.<br /><br />Duane Robert Pierson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/obscurum-per-obscurius/
