Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic.
The recurring theme of the ‘plasti’ poets.
Millions sitting in ill-fitting poetry sites,
and vacuum-laden forums making
hydrogenated-fatty comments broadcast
through a dispassionate, torpid ether,
or stuffed into serpentine fiber-optic cables
emitting lard laden signals that slow down
and clog ever-bored photons grudgingly carrying
this vacuous data to burned out screens just
to display sent, read, unread, dead messages.

Nothing really works, but the virile springs
of keyboard letters, livelier than the words
they form so well, morphing into flat,
fat final locutions that reek of nothing, nothing, nothing.
Empty shells of language used as currency
to buy and sell the wasted moments of mediocrities.
Self-congratulatory writing, good/bad writes,
don’t give up; the silent scream of
the failed poets who, like the wingless birds
flutter aimlessly on the ground unable
to fathom what has happened.

Jump, jump is all they can do now,
the closest thing to ascension,
but that is OK, no one really cares.
With the droppings from soaring giants
on their heads, some feel empowered
to keep going, the stink of guano
is their accolade from these gods,
high above. How could they see,
how can they know, in this mass of chaos,
confusion and conformity. Who gives a damn,
a letter here, a word there; one massive
self-obsessed mind talking to itself, incessantly.
Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic.

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