Fuck poetry!... whatís the point? †
Impotent ink inadequately filling flimsy filament
poorly-put prose poured out in pixilated impressions.
Letís burn it all. †
Only in the remains will we find the love we endeavor to ink
the love written within the rage-filled rantings of wrath
flouted in flowery rhymes intended to (un)flower the sometimes (un)suspect
the love delineated line-by-line by the daft using non-descript descriptors †
handed out haphazardly in hallucinogenic harangues
scribbled then discarded in the scrapyards of cities sloshed on the same substance
the love lurking within handsomely-handcrafted haikus
and stumbled upon as seamless strings of coherent incoherence in word nooks and prose crannies.
But letís no longer sit here and needle together more words. No more scribbling ferociously, never quite making it to the point.
Letís torch it all.
Out of the ashes, let us unearth the one wordless word
render poetry purportless †
and ensconce ourselves again in the hallowed hollow of †
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