The Patronizing Patronage Of Alfred Prufrock

I have pinpointed the precise problem
with the poetry of
TS Eliot
and it is in his lack of confidence,
which is to say, his ego, his
for he overcompensates his
with self-aware learning,
bastardizing natural
with stilted posturing to impress,
like a painting by
da Vinci
framed in a gaudy gold neon lit
ready to ironically flush itself down.
Being a poet primarily of
he was an Anglophile,
as are most,
and being dissatisfied with his
Missouri roots
he lopped off his dandelion head
so the fragmentary seeds could drift
across the salty Atlantic
and settle on the isle of Albion
where he would renounce America’s
rough-spun Plebeian quilt
for a Patrician’s patronizing banner.
It was his lack of confidence
that spurred him toward his
adoptive homeland,
seeking Anglican angels
to sing him to sweet surrender,
trading a mongrel empire on the rise
for a purebred, dying one.
He was a
Hipster gigolo
fucking an old aristocratic socialite
beyond her prime,
yet still proud enough to taunt his
flaccid inferiority complex
as he withdrew from her primly preened
all the while ejaculating profuse
And for what?
A wasteland of would-be
between himself and his
tea-teetotaling, modernist pubmates,
all of them condescending
and yet Eliot being so smart
as he admittedly was
being also self-aware enough
to know he was a joke to them,
a novelty from
and desperately seeking approval
due to his colonized mind.
But he was never really accepted
for going Native.
Woolf conflated him as
alien to her as an
for all the difference it made
while riding her waves of
And I pity him,
for he never loved himself,
not really,
as he sought acceptance on
foreign shores
like Boudica if she had
betrayed herself
for the sake of Britannia.
He applied a stress-test
to fracture poetry to many facets
only to be fractured
Like any true-born English intellectual
he preferred the language of
or the pretense of it, anyway,
but failed to be
embarrassed of his own
Britishness, too busy being embarrassed
by his Americanness.
If not for Academics
equally insecure as Eliot himself
and thus seeking a sense of worth
in a world indignant and derisive
toward their pretenses…
if not for Academics
entombed in their ivory towers
and peeking through ivy curtains
to scoff at the Plebeians down below…
If not for Academics
peddling codas and ciphers
for his esoteric babble
then Eliot would never have been
but a scornful footnote, at best,
in the annals of Poetry.
See here how I kick his
and yet it remains aloof and insular and
masturbatory and cryptic?
This is the best poetry the
could muster,
and would have been better
with his newfound silence,
or at least that is what this
simple Kentucky boy
tends to think
after having attempted once
to cut his own roots
and drift to far shores.


Plot, character, setting, and action
should all be established in stride,
not each in a conflicted faction
facing off on an opposing side,
and yet this doddering fool plods about,
left and right and questing so aimlessly,
then squatting down to shit it all out
and wallowing in it shamelessly.
He so loves the smell of his own shit,
thinking his discharge a lavender scent
while he rolls round-and-round in it
like a scatophiliac decadent.
And critics praise his every word
as if he is raising anew the sun,
but it is a balled-up bit of turd—
the story which this dung beetle has spun.

Cheap Feels

Forewarning: This poem is crude and gratuitous, which is only fitting because the target of its weaponization is a glorified greeting-card poet whose mass appeal is as enigmatic as it is undeserved.  Anyway, it is crude and gratuitous…


Your poetry dribbles impotently like
cum drops from the spent lips
of a limp dick,
the semen dead before it hits the
perfumed air
of the two-star strip club
on the bad side of town,
landing on the fuzzy, faux-wool floor
of the champagne room
while you gaze at yourself
through the shattered glass of a
mirrored ceiling,
mustachioed anonymous mask
bearded with the glitter-strewn
of the “social media influencer”
crab-walking at an awkward angle
to take a duck-faced selfie
with your lips pressed firmly
against her freshly waxed asshole
while dubstep booms blandly in the background
like the digitized cheers of all those
two-bit, two-byte sycophants
who praise your premature
But I know the false
of your reputation,
and they culminate into nothing more than a
stillborn fetus
thrown out into the
back-alley dumpster
as Candy checks her sticky inner thigh
for the cancerous birthmark
that might give you a fucking clue.
If only there was a cultural
against these poetry trends
rather than these disastrous
post-coital pull-out strategies
you employ,
then maybe there would be less
partially-aborted poetry
rotting in the
Jungian landfills
of our collective consciousness.