This lovesick ravenous crone Impresses Her horny claws firmly In the soft mud Of our mind, tears At our bleeding Mushy heart, Snatches us away Like a harpy all the while Droning raucously sweet Nothings in our ear.
You’ll find that buoyant Voice you’re looking for bobbing
Right here near the surface, not Sinking at the end
Of one last desperate line.
Moderator’s comments: Cinquor twitching like a catastomid on the end of a gaffe(sic)—this guy doesn’t know Trout Fishing in America from The Compleat Angler. Why he presumes to be such an authority on the murky current state of American poetry is anybody’s guess, but there’s a strong possibility it might have something to do with his piscine-sounding name.