Mark Peterson Poet I do not know?

Orson Welles Is Dead

So disgusted with poetry I read in top magazines. Here then is some silliness I might submit to "The New Yorker."

Averted gaze upon Mars' shifting poles 
now roiling in the teapot,
their anger lifted high beneath 
rigid sprocket's 
essence. 

But why, an angry pupil dilated, 
whose measurement again falls short 
of dresser drawers where it might end? 
Is this the object of my search?  
The mirror?

Rising, falling, shelves laid bare, 
yet grass was not announced 
when BBC ended florid service,
so Africa had little choice 
and thus could only merit. 

The earth begins to wheeze, 
but Orson Welles is dead.

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Connie Marcum Wong April 27, 2020 at 5:37 PM What passes today as popular poetry often is not worth reading. It usually contains rambling on with disdain for some personal pain or fear based complaint using ugly unnecessary curse words to make a point. I threw all the modern poetry books away and quit supporting these young writers whose work is so highly taughted because I felt it was a waste of my time to read such insipid ramblings. I found nothing even remotely better than the poetry on this site. So I agree. Well done my friend! xxoo

Michelle Faulkner February 10, 2020 at 12:47 PM This is weirdly wonderful, in an esoteric sort of way - also agree the title is intriguing! Mark Peterson February 10, 2020 at 11:21 PM Michelle, your reply is endearing. Thank you. Maybe I should submit it!

Andrea Dietrich February 1, 2020 at 2:46 PM I do not even read poetry any more except HERE. I imagine it's gone way downhill compared to what i read in the "old days' in my literature textbooks from the 70's!! I enjoyed this, my friend. Mark Peterson February 2, 2020 at 10:08 AM Thanks, Andrea. I refuse to obsequiously worship at the feet of the 2% of the population that sets trends by telling us what we need to like, if we're to fit in socially. Crap is crap although I must admit it was difficult to maintain such silliness, line after line. Even so, frogs winter in hives of selfless longing. Sap will ever rise past dreaded pastimes.