My poetry considered trash, not supported
by academic cash, lacking unblemished white
shineface avatar smile, not one who's transported
by flying machine much; my words stay out of sight,
out of re- or super-vision or curation,
but I keep scattering - not because I aspire
to be part of higher-lit pedestal station
but because the urge don't disappear. I'll retire
from whatever shit job I have prolly at death,
but my last gasp will still be poetic exhale.
Accepted edited (enabled?) shineface breath
of *serious* poetry remains far too pale,
lacking color of blood, or mud, or shit-stained soul.
Sigh... keep scattering fragments, hoping to stay whole.
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