THE LAST OF THE SO-CALLED PRETENTIOUS POETS

who gives A RAT'S FUCK about the poet. he speaks in code, speaks in gibberish, with dilated mouth and tongue flapping in the wind of rancid plaque and old mouthwash. it searches for gold, every world SOLID GOLD but goddamn it if ain't shit and tartar. tearing at the enamel. tearing away at what's real.

does he speak to anyone does he speak to me does he speak to himself. does it burn from too much sun. too much hot air. is nothing left for the poet. does anyone hear the words through the chatter of false teeth. does anyone at all.