Canto CCLXVII

More numerous that dried up dead spiders
on every wonky bookshelf in the land;
or all the gleaming turds laid by King Midas—

the countless poems, unloved and unpenned
and in their millions on the internet.
Invisible enough not to be panned

nor subjected to slush pile sifter’s hate.
They may as well be fag smoke in the fog.
The hits will never come and so they wait

for some Cyber-Cromwell to pull the plug.

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1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    May 28, 2012 @ 07:49:51

    If I’m reading your poetry I’m probably supposed to be doing something else.

    When someone added the final full stop to all those unread unrequited poems…they experienced small moment of joy, a small glimmer of satisfaction.

    Reply

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