When painters who paint about painting
meet writers who write about writing,
ends in esthetic in-fighting.
Such modernists, right about nothing
(mostly nihilists mad about something)
are so lost in the process
they vent all their excess
in metacognition: dull writing.
You poets who muse about musing—
unaware you are reader-abusing,
provide a terrific
verbose soporific . . .
yet not of the reader’s own choosing.
I long for some sheer virtuosity
but I’m stifled by all the pomposity.
This dull erudition,
is naught but artistic atrocity.
You thinkers who think about thinking
drag my spirit far lower than sinking.
What we want is a Word
which we haven’t yet heard . . .
so ’till then I’ll just drink about drinking.