And Don't Even Get Me Started On Maya Angelou
Seamus Heaney bores me to tears.
Reading Bukowski’s like drinking cheap beers.
Adrienne Rich? A shrill ranting mess.
Jorie Graham? Joyce in a dress.
Ashbery don’t make a salt-lick of sense.
Merrill’s too cutesy, Bly is past tense.
Ginsberg, like Whitman, don’t know when to stop.
Plath is a whiner and Updike is slop.
Jarman is jarring and Strand gets me lost.
Auden is precious and Thomas too sauced.
Bishop is blather and Lowell pure rot.
Frost is too frigid and Sexton's a twat.
Hall’s in the closet and Justice is blind.
Eliot’s pompous, Pound out of his mind.
Brodsky and Stevens? The Emperor’s New Clothes.
Ted Hughes? An asshole. Better write prose.
copyright 2009 Matthew J Wells