The Death of all We Hold Dear

Do you wonder if we deserve the doom that’s upon us?  I give you what passes for a poem in our world.  Consider this representative clutch of lines:

He was sort of famous or at least
in a sort of famous band
so I got all their CDs
and I couldn’t hear any drumming
I guess he was that good.
I felt like a radiator had landed on me.
Birds started talking to me and not out of friendliness.

The tin ear, the cliche, the chattiness, the ‘colloquial’ speech that sounds like nothing anyone would, or at least should, ever say however demotic their tongue – it’s all a manifestation of evil as a vast nothingness, or to use classical language, a privation of being.

This piece was committed by one Dean Young, who has apparently also committed a book entitled Fall Higher.  O the irony!  O the invention!  You know, people who don’t like to read or write poetry are not really my enemies, though I would like to find ways of commending the art to them.  No, my enemies are bad poets with long, padded resumes.

We’re doomed, I say – it really is only a matter of time.

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