The fine line…
The beauty of poetry, or so I’m told, is the lack of parameters. The fact that it’s a form of artistic creation than nearly anyone can do. I have written poetry, although I am nothing more than average. (and I might be giving myself credit with that.) My wife writes quite a bit, and has had quite a bit published. I enjoy her work. It’s possible that I’m a bit jaded in that respect, but I don’t think it’s likely. She has had her work appear not only on line, but in several books. I’m assuming that because people actually pay money to read her work, she must at least qualify as a competent poet.
Because she writes, and we try to share our interests with each other, I end up reading a good ammount of poetry. Some I like. But some, I’m finding, I simply don’t get.
I
Fornicate
Fuck
satisfied
sleep
I found this on a different site with 50+ comments extolling it’s virtues. What? I may not qualify as an expert, but my opinion on this “poem” is that the author, their ‘fans’, and whoever published this dribble, should fornicate their own damn selves.
Am I wrong? I’m assuming that there is a fine line between a poem and a few random words thrown together to form something.
If anyone knows, I’d love to hear.
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