a little bored narciccism

[joel]

Exhausted, blocked—and still he longed to write
originality (as if a vein
of novel thought were possibly a right
to mine contemporarily), so vain
as authors are, he quick employed a rite
of rote poetics, turned his whethervane
(as hurricanes throughout their furies wind)
as old clichés for newer praise he wined
and dined and wooed till, whetted in the rain
there spilled, ignored antiques (long padlocked, they’re
unnoticed or abused) by gentle rein
were led again to innovation, their
despairs reworked—his wondrous words, his reign
of verses: what exhaustion blocked him there?

[stilltrucking]

I should not comment on poetry Joel
I should not comment on music either

They are so far from me
But I enjoyed reading the poem

Funny thing every time I see his name
I think
Poor Echo, Narcissus gets all the ink