this morning
the taste of poetry
on my tongue
is muted
in the coffee
and empty lines
constructed by
so called poets
who barely
manage to
mimic the movement
spasmodically
arranging letters
without ever
touching the words
dripping false
sincerity in
vapid lines

this morning
the taste of poetry
on my tongue
is of drowning
in the shallow end
of the production line
cookie cutter
hallmark bastions
devoid of
anything
approaching
artistic allure
yet spackled
with confidence
in the place
of progression
assembling
paint by number prose
in shades of gray

this morning
the taste of poetry
on my tongue
is of batteries
an endless parade
of false meanings
in reductive
pseudo-intellectualism
the right words
the right form
proper pitch and tone
an ikea showroom
fully furnished
yet never lived in
written by the spectre
of virgin whores
shadows of depth
in an illusion
of perspective