Hate poetry

     
     
in interstice of some useless verses,    
which make hardly some things happen or change    
unless leaving fleeting trace to ephemeral methamorphose of  insipid mind    
i ask, what actually is a poetry?    
What an other name for this as noble madam?    
to say the least,  poetry seems being just an excuse for deeds,      
marauderness of sin, undergoing of blame----    
lubricant niggers of necrorealism, instant banana-chokolama minnesingers, or unarmed maudlin (like me)    
web their nets mostly even not as subtle as spider web it in their cunning geometry of perfect target..    
exactly as w.s.b. coined it the writers are nought as insects..    
egotism, pose, vanity and uncanny soliptism are typical poets-items, as true as we saw it ..    
let assume.., but where is unity between word and deed..?    
no piece is keen like that bayonet    
and if this is random case, its never mean to some survival-aim but just fucking priveleged piece of art..    
this regimed thing art,  same with literature..    
ask some rabid poet, if such still dwelleth on this swelled earth, does he muchly loves poetry?    
most probably he will spit and curse and give you his most wicked grin..    
piece after piece breaks to life yet remains be entirely harmless..    
the are even not posh enough to conquer some beautiously filthy whore    
between poets is neither icecold intellect in play, nor any hot verbal battle nor merry marriages..    
futurism's  dead, dadaism's dead, and love hides her sublime core from us. ..& everyone for himself..    
the kinship, if at all  existent, are just  blankly mellow, unnamable faceless.. to envy are the surrealists of yesteryears  for they lived in hive..or akmeists built socalled „zech“    
but what we are now?      
Nay, there is hardly unison between word and deed..! here is a person - and there is his/her „poetry“!?      
Fuck my life! What a snob postmodern crap..    
Whom for  we elaborate our nonsense, if we even not challenge or bother  eachother and change eachother „works and days“?    
Inside  of deep gap between poet and his scribble    
is even not silly harmonie of empty ball to find..    
it feels like is nothing left than going to hate poetry      
to hate poetry with fucking sheer vengeance..    
northeless i read and read verses..    
and still i dont get what does this schiz means,    
do  i love what i hate?    
Please advice!,    
Help my head!