I spent this morning reading my own poetry,
which I haven’t done in a long time,
and I found it not bad—not bad at all.
In fact, it’s quite good, if I do say so myself.
Yet hardly anyone knows it, and what’s more,
I’ve wasted any chance to get it published
by simply posting it in that petty cubbyhole called the Web,
or so the experts in the field say.
The above may sound somewhat conceited,
but—though it comes at a price, as there are no free meals
in this corner greasy spoon—isn’t being bold a poet’s birthright?
If I didn’t know any better, I’d be inclined to believe
that every artist is actually a bit of a smug,
condescending arsehole doomed to sainthood
—a fig leaf covering up everyone else’s free pass
to continue business as usual.
hidden pilcrow 