The future of poetry:
https://youtu.be/g4Q1jZ-LOT0
An honor student in the pre-school of resentment
Where did modern poetry go so wrong?
At what point did poets give up on craft and instead concentrate on self-absorbed, narcissistic ejaculations.
lol
The world is a big place OP
Ignore the trash
>>8277518
This is me acknowledging a Jonathan Bowden meme post.
Please add the caption 'when you've nutted and she's still suckin'
It's time to act like a woman.
>>8277529
*teleports behind you*
THANK YOU VERY MUCH
>>8277516
Really makes you think huh.....
>>8277528
I was going to post something about how this is outrageous blah blah blah terrible blah blah but then I read your post.
Thank you anon.
>>8277516
So why does this kind of shit count as poetry ?
>>8277544
THANK YOU VERY MUCH
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>>8277551
"PROLOGUE:~
FIRST SPECTRUM OF INDETERMINACY: (1)
In Hell, per se, a scrimmage has formed this side of desolation; it exists in front of a goal which served as a gibbet. A blackened waste lay in the rear – and it already tempted its greyness; if only to lie awake before this aperture. It took after one of those nets in Gaelic football; an area or zone that has an ice-cream salesman next to it. A bleary or incontinent cranium is seen; one which sends rivulets beyond an expectant spine. The game has momentarily paused… yet it will soon recommence without his observations. A wanton head looks up at the camera; and it feels dishevelled, broken off, toothsome or possessed of a withering brain. One eyelet is out while the other feeds off a prism; when taken together with the convulsions of a lobotomy. His molars also wax irregular; they peel back in an action reminiscent of a scrivener, if not some daemonic bait. In truth, could this be everything that’s left from the life of Gregory Fawcett Greensleeve?
THIS FOURTH QUARTET OWES ELIOT NOTHING: (4)
Our sibyl exists before the polarity of a northern star or lilt, and her chair consists of darkened teak. Its back spirals into a jaguar’s cranium – the latter forced open in a snarl – although a ram’s head looks on. Aries-like, it adorns the throne’s other chair or pitcher, in a way that rises from its closure. Somewhat sepulchrally, a sword runs down her thigh and through a skull’s ambit. Whereas our Goat of Mendes – shorn at the wrist – took the light of a brazen discharge. It was fluffy at the chin and ears, but also chose to look on (darkly) under heavily trammelled horns. They lie across his presence laterally rather like horizontal tusks. The sorceress or mistress of prophesy has a name: it’s Minx Raven III. Might T.S. Eliot’s dirge or entry not provide a meaning herein (?):
Who is that walking beside you?
When I count anon, there are only us two together
It glides, comes hooded, and is wrapped in a brown mantle
But who pads on your outermost side?
“The Wasteland” (1922)"
A modern genius :^)
>>8277516
>I fucking love being privileged
>and I ain't doing nothing to change it
based
Is he the new sam hyde?
>>8277516
>that thing
>white
>>8277524
at the beginning
