What is this poetry, you keep talking about
This poetry, you keep becoming
Like a neurological stimulation
You can’t give up!?
An imported art for the few
From some peculiar time
When people read and spoke of
Their innermost feelings
Is poetry to be felt as something
Fundamental, then, or a shape produced
Or a fictional narrative
Or a sculpture of nature reproducing
Something or copying something other
An architecture of the human condition?
A caricature then, a blank slate that is
Never truly neutral or objective at all?
Or a failure to integrate into reality?
Some verbal instrument of our subjectivity
A popular language of futility
Like philosophy, or something to be hidden
By teenagers on secret blogs
All appearances do seem fallacious
And we disdain to be ourselves classified
As the formerly neurotic, or spontaneously flawed
But who cares, we trace our own definitions
Right down to the words we choose to affirm
However our psyche breathes, however
Our art can account for our genes
In these environments, this snapshot of history
These ruined cities and corrupted nations
So poetry is not meant to convince or persuade
But to reveal, offering a sense of
The human to the intelligence machine
And offering a sense of the past to the future
A passion of the elementary kind
We wrote our best poems when young
Considered poetry, it’s an elegance of interpretation
Which takes greatest delight in hearing
Our own voice, like a vanity of our griefs
That’s the state of society, measured
In linguistic trends and masquerading as art.