Dear Poetry Critic:
I will be the first to admit how constructive criticism
has done the world of good to help turn wot was formerly rubbish,
into....into something akin to being just a little better than rubbish.
I have always claimed to be an amateur poet.
But, you do not exactly offer true critique -- moreso, character assassination;
a deconstructive, ignorant, dull edge that doesn't give the poet an out.
You do not offer insight or a helping hand.
Every time I see one of your latest deconstructive criticisms,
especially when left on a poem written by a young writer
only beginning on his/her poetic journey,
someone you wish to demoralize in hopes of not having yet another person
write far better than yourself;
I take a gander at your latest post --
your poetry sucks ass. Plain and simple.
It barely makes for worthwhile toilet paper.
Your poetry is ten times weaker than the poetry of the young 'uns you cut apart.
As for your list of accolades and photo-shopped degrees,
these would make far better housing supplies for the homeless in Sudan.
Thus, I have come to the conclusion how the bubble of illusions you reside in,
is bolstered by the fact that your life is so pitiful,
instead of committing suicide, you attempt to demoralize other people --
this is the only thread keeping you alive; stringing you along into the sunrise
of another day.
Do not worry.
Soon enough, the Good Lord will call upon an Angel of Death
who will blow-out your knee caps with a claw-hammer,
shove a porcelain chopstick dipped in Hydrochloric acid,
into one of your eyeballs,
tear-out your tongue with a pair of rusty pliers,
then drive over your body with a two-tonner....
....over and over again -- back and forth, back and forth.
Yes! Yes! Doesn't it feel good!? Feel the pain!
But before you die, you'll watch with your remaining good eye,
as we piss all over your pathetic excuse for poetry,
turn it into a cipher-code for the agents of your conspiracy theory to decipher.
The tramp on the corner will remove his shoes and socks,
stick his filthy, unwashed toes up your nostrils,
so the last scent you will ever smell, is that of cheesy, toe-jam.
And when you are released from your mortal coil,
descend into the pit of sulfur and brimstone,
the Fallen Angels of Hell will flee the flames of damnation,
plugging their ears, screaming like banshees
at the thought of spending an eternity with the likes of you.
P.S. -- Thank you kindly for your latest feedback. I might take it into consideration.
Dark Lord reigning over the realm
of Anthrax-coated sugarplums,
razor blade-riddled cotton candy,
and Valentine's chocolates filled with
the stale feces of Benito Mussolini.