Well-meant Shit


I’m sick of it-
the well-meaning shit.
The celebration of each mundane phrase.
Working out how few ways
some folk reduce there lives to cliche,
and say,

“How marvellous,
I’ve experienced this.”
It’s got to be shared
and preferably artlessly.

Yet if Hitler
penned the perfect verse
delineating
his madness and his deeds and worse,
I could tip my hat in thanks to that.
Not in celebration of such topics
and not in any way misanthropic,

but more as a nod
to any skill displayed
and say “thank god
there’s someone daft enough
to still believe that poetry is nothing
without craft”
and have the guts to spray them
out, in lines unspayed.

I’m sorry, I’m tired.

I’ve been reading too much
and my eyes and patience have expired.
I need to save this dissecting
for my own well-meant shit,
and forgive the sins
of my less-than-holy writ.

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