I don’t even especially like Ginsberg’s poetry. Give me Hopkins any day. But the torrent of measured fitfulness poured out as a fruitless libation, sterile poetry stank with death, demise, burrowing in little rat holes for faint hope; well there’s more there there than the internet, right? A goodly bit of the tubes piping bare flesh into bare hands and barren hearts, the rest amalgams of news, quizzes, pokes, wanton squealing over shiny things, and poor people mortgaging themselves on the next turn-key SEO keyword whitepaper build an audience dropship four hour solution (run on index cards, of all things). Well of course Ginsberg’s deadbeat doped out strung hipster buds and their very real suffering has more life than that. Life takes time. Poetry takes time. The tubes steal attention, the grist of living. Time bandits. Attention pirates. Design masquerading as art. The shocking parading as feeling. This pause pretending to be an ending.

Let us read this treatise on the death star,
how it is like unto a womb.

THIS POEM HAS BEEN RICK-ROLLED

I could bury you with a staggering
inventory of despicable instaculture
Perpetuated by the hypothalamus kickstart
Suns out, reboot
Mountain Dew Ganja

Lost it

Tweakin’ mah Javascript
NOT THINKING ABOUT REAL THINGS

I want Obama in my ovaries

Serious Poem Are Serious

Every utterance a reference
Irony is the cultural coin
There are no competing currencies
That’s not a sustainable business model