cavil

it's not poetry, you know. what's happening here or out there. i've adopted that it's syntaxy droppings. funny, empty little prose. funny, empty little clever and deep, deepening voices. a smooth, relatable cadence can't bloom it poetry. even a pretty, attractive cadence can't rot it poetry. peculiar indentations and peculiar spacing and peculiar line breaks, a peculiar poetry they're all meant to be. they're kind of exciting when the thrown up letters are more notably uncommon. they're kind of enlightening when the gurgling voices are suspiciously unfamiliar. syntaxy droppings, syntaxy droppings. excretion of syntax. excretion of excretion. it doesn't count if you've finished reading it and it gave you nothing. and it doesn't count if my rapport with repetition has fooled you into thinking this an exception.