They ask me why I despise,
The formality of critics.
Let us begin:
A treatise,
In poem.
Douche hipster vibes,
Like my twenties.
When I did slam poetry,
Learning the depth of live audiences.
Seldom are many clever enough –
To ever read the depth,
Of some works.
As we often never learn,
The secret of silence.
The ability to read a room.
I’ve spoken at potlatches,
Forums,
Homes.
There will always be a bell curve,
My darlings.
Expect most critics to fall themselves,
Short of such trajectories.
Regardless –
An artist must never consider the audience.
They must remain faceless.
Some of my greatest mistakes,
As artist:
Allowing fans to claw,
At one’s projects.
Or weasel in.
Let nobody affect process –
But those you designate.
Never let outside forces,
Corrupt.
When I fail,
In my Humanisms.
Billowing misanthropy,
Cruel.
Prejudiced.
I see the masses as sheep.
Fodder,
At best.
Fodder, At Best.
