SPLUTTER
I tire of these poets’ ragworm tongues.
Words dragged drugged as alibi for art.
Stabbed and stripped, a menu mocked:
One cup of spit, a bucket of bile, wrangled gristle,
Punctuating slice, the wet meat slap,
Served up alleluia teenage grit.
Sneer chant, hooligan thrust,
Smelling of quick ink and sweat.
Educated ejaculate, staccato excess.
Did we not do all that in the sixties, but better?
And Dylan before that with fire and form
And beauty in the boiling of the blood
And its exquisite deadly music
Throbbing word by word.
But it is all too soft now
In the smell of burning plastic
And the falling fruits on flicker screens.
A manufacturing of synthetic ecstacy,
Needled sublime in neon sewer arches.
A scribbled, dribbled sgraffito, rude and crass.
Self-lubricated splutter, skinned, pampered,
Hung out, drying, shrunken, mean.
Slick city strutters, the ravens watch unfooled.
—
simonhlilly 
Ouch.
A little bile of its own do I detect? 😀
Annoyance, irritance, the same way TV programmes nowadays often put dark filters over the images, whose actors mutter inaudibly, who skew around on hand-held cameras. A fashion of gritty darkness that can be refreshing occassionally, but tedious on endless repetition. Same way Arts Councils promote a very narrow range of styles.
Yes, I have what are probably similar thoughts from time to time.
The positve side of reading poetic works not to my particular (peculiar) tastes, is that they can still equally stir and wake my own voices. Somthing about the non-utilitarian use of language, maybe.
We don’t choose our inspiration; it chooses us.
Though we can ignore, or act on, it..
I found that if I ignore inspiration for too long it gradually stops visiting me.
Flies off to find another branch….
That’s my suspicion.