Intermediate Focus

There are no dead languages.  
The only words that putrify
 are the poems that lack obscurity.
The ones that don't have
 the presence of mind
To violate your presence of mind.

When words rip through like drunk khans
In a mongolian calvary beat
And turn sanctity of thought into warfare,
You know you live in a time of art.
And by art I mean existential agony,
Because too often the words are interchangeable.

Brutally so , like the switch up is childbirth,
And the first pangs are really bad verse.

There is no good poetry. It all sucks,
Like a washed up supermodel with bad plastic surgery on her lips, so her face makes that sucking motion when she talks.
But quality is not the purpose of poetry,
Expression is,
And if you express your feelings in simple term and image, then you dont deserve the honour of being stamped out by stoccato mongol hoofbeats, and washed down with an ice cold glass of divinity.

Trancendance was never meant for the simple.