There are no more things to write poems on
Poetry has completed all knowledge said
Metaphors and analogies can be put down
Rhyme and rhythm are all dead
This is the post-modern puerile consciousness
Where symbols which exist are ironic
And if the irony we can neither understand or find
Then the irony in fact is that
And poetry has less blood than stones
More money than a pauper tossed
Into a pauper's grave
The crows of realism and rationality
Plucked the bones clean down to marrow
Then sucked that out till nothing remains
Fragments of crushed bones
Less substantial than egg shells trampled
By an infinite herd of wildebeests
Racing to the very last water hole
I cannot taste poetry's bravery
Nor poetry's love and heart
All words are slaughtered corpses
Of a language in terminal decline
Poets carrion birds black and thin as cholera
Whose world view is of blight
Sick of heart and ill as homicidal night
They have no more beauty to impart
All poetry has been said
Now we are beaten with dry sticks irrelevant
Of Chaucer Keats and Dylan
Drowning in the symbolism
Overwhelmed by anarchy of nonsense
Going down for the third time
Not writing only dying
There are no poems for which to live
No poetry to enlighten our life
The end no clearer can be foretold
Than when the tailoring of words is gone.