Your obsession with metaphysics is off putting,
Dear Poetry, your dramatic egotistical plots
and riddles blot the sky, pillars of equisitely
shaped turds, holding their tinkerers aloft.
We are luminous beings of immortal light
my hairy, Irish ass. I see no holy halo
on a planet packed with savagely selfish,
manicured monkeys in silk pinstripe suits.
I am a brain, a body, a double helix shaped
by generations reaching back to pre-cognition.
A biological pattern, order in the insanity of
physical and chemical chaos, multicellular.
Put your energy, Dear Poetry, into objective truths
which are, unsurprisingly, infinitely more sublime
than the morally muddled musings of ancient
creatures who couldn’t confront the cosmos.
Grand, horrifying, and endlessly irreverent of
the platitudes and prayers putted skyward.
Language needn’t mate metaphysical metaphor
to communicate our communal chorus of awe.
The pastoral predates the predatory pastor, a trope
shapes and shears us like sheep, don’t you know?
On to a new pasture, you peasants and masters!
You poets and bards, I implore, won’t you go?
To the temples of reality, where, Dear Poetry,
The truth is, we don’t glow.