It's been a while since I did any poet-bashing. In fact, I've been very soft on the buggers for a while. So it's time for another episode in Why I'm an Anti-Poet (with apologies to any real people who are poets, including Sex W. Johnston).
A while ago I was at a literary event in the wilds of Galway which I may have mentioned in passing before. Sitting in a room full of pets, reading their poems aloud, everyone politely clapping each reading as it would be in no-one's interest to bring a critical spotlight to bear on the affair, I struggled to stay awake despite the endless provocation of the poetry.
I chatted with a really nice poet whosat nervously waiting to read. The reading was appalling and the poetry beyond awful but the applause was the same as for the headlining act - who actually seemed to be a real poet with a real book to his name.
And once again I was inspired to scribble a few lines on the back of a beer mat for the sake of posterity.
A Death in the Family?
Drone on, you bastards.
I'm only sleeping.
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