Delusions of grandeur. Pretend poets think they’re special. Which is ridiculous. Poetry never saved a life. It hasn’t cured cancer. I’m certain it never will considering how much liquor it drinks.
Have you read Lewis Carroll? Pure nonsense.
So this is a message to everyone who pretends to be a poet (and that is every poet living and/or dead): get a real job. You will be happier and so will your family. Poetry has never solved any problem. You know what has? Money and hotels.
If my lazy-ass son had a real job, instead of masturbating all day and calling it a poetry blog, he wouldn’t keep asking me for money. I wouldn’t keep telling him no, and I would love him.
Poetry is easy. I will show you. I literally wrote this off the top of my head three minutes ago.
The Ballad of Knowgood Carp
I know damn well
when I cast my spell
I will be okay
on the Judgment Day
because I have more money
so I can buy God's honey
and if I want to bone ya'
what I'll do is phone ya'.
Do better than that, B.S. Eliot. I defy you.
Knowgood Carp, Owner of all the Hotels on Block Island and Some in Connecticut
Pungent Sound Journal of Pulp Poetry 