When done right, poetry is terribly pretentious.
– it pretends to be
everything it is not.

For instance; the sweet aftertaste of scotch offers no real nourishment, therefore couldn’t possibly contain any virtue,

and the savoriness of stew from the bones of last year’s winter, a cosmic joke, no doubt to suggest the merit in decrepitude,

or the stimulant touch of a lover’s probing words, whose fingers are miles away – hence – ostensibly, the love is untrue,

or the rose-hinted hue of the Rockies before nightfall, though hard and grey it feels beneath the shoe,

and when a poem is finished to its most perfect pretense,
-at a penny price of a pen’s masturbatory sleuth,

The universe can finally be understood for all its hidden glory, as the ultimate purveyor of poo.

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