All hail to thee love, your swave "eh" intrigues me.
Your embattlements stack like wet cordwood
upon the pile of used newspapers in my outhouse,
making the use of a corn cob most appealing.
I feel the need of purification, rejuvenation by fire.
Like holding a match under your out stretched eyelid
or maybe, just maybe sweeter, a cold sore
on the inside of your lip; so neat on a dinner date.
At least these things are real.
The lip has to heal, which it can do even if left alone.
Not like made-up words which have no direction,
no qualitative analysis, and no meaning
in the perceived circumstance or illustration.
Just made-up words which fit a line,
and you call it poetry?
You schmooze a line of B. S. at the reader,
in trite cliché and rusted phrasal tone,
riding the pretense of the sublime
and you call that poetry?
But then geezzz...? what can you expect
from someone whose only goal
is to piss someone off?