Modern Poetry in a Nutshell

Some transcendental thought
about my present situation:
O’ angst, O’ cigarettes, O’ beer,
O’ my identity, O’ job, O’ rent,
O’ apparent unique awareness
in a bubble, misconstrued,
and lain out before you, spread
and you judge ME, i the same.
How sad. I am a poet, I tell the world,
though I never write. Listen! I am a painter,
though I never paint a picture, how sad. See!
Everyone is the same in this tiny city,
where is little progress? Where is change?
Who cares? Who doesn’t make hip-hop,
who isn’t in a band, who doesn’t make art,
who doesn’t have a bad or good day?
I’ll throw some big words (effect)
in the mix to make it more modern, more real,
here you go: lithe, sinewy, post-structuralism
puissant, Midwesterner, Mississippi,
oh, i am sorry, that ending was pat.
here are some interesting and semi-ironic ideas,
and everyone talks about it.
they were never heard before, but they were!
My best friends are editors and I am a solicited writer.
I have paid the price, which is time and titles.
My contemporaries all think I am the best,
we are very close to one another,
they name drop me because I am a genius.
Come to my seminar, my summit!
Let me read for you, to you…
So. Fucking. Slow. I am god. My thick frames
and tweed jacket match my skinny jeans
and my leather shoes. Now, I have
one question: Who the fuck are you?

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