distemper and sin

she says
the lack of polish
the pitted veneer of
the regurgitated
nonsense
i spill is
infuriating
to the image of
poetry
she demands
with flowery
utterances
piss poor forced
vernacular
to appeal
to the pretty people
that stand in
fields of ochre
reading
pedantic rhymes
to one another
in a bland facsimile
of poetic indecency

she doesn’t
see the ugly is
beauty
to a broken bucket of
badly worded ramblings
in this decaying
chunk of
organic (doesn’t) matter

the words are
reflections of the
red faced fool
screaming
from the mountains
that life is not
the gift they wish
to see represented
no
they are the
bloody vocal cords of
an insipid amateur
with no trace of
beauty
in his soul
trying to point the
ravenous rage
at the source of
distemper and sin

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