Dr. Hubris

To hear your voice is to rot

from the inside by castrated

semiotics.  The dead pan tones

grating out of your vocal chords

are nothing more than

the cliché of fingernails on chalkboards

making people claw at their own ears

in hopes to numb themselves

to the atrocity you

call planetary poetry.  I call pathetically

mousey, rubric rendered

ridiculous, and a mockery of something sacred.

Your words are small,

never rising to the music

of Orpheus. Self-serving

only allows your lines to inflate

nothing but ego, which disintegrates

the beautiful feather of poetics coasting on a bay

so appropriately called Misery.


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