Charles Baudelaire , The Exterminator

My latest offering over at Weekly Hubris shows how you can dispose of work written by pestiferous, pretentious pseudo-artistic poseurs by employing Monsieur Fleurs du Mal as a hit man. While you’re on the premises, check out what the other columnists have to offer!

You Can Lead a Horse to Water. . . .

In my wildest dreams, Pegasus has me

Riding high in the saddle—

(Never a care)

*

When I wake from my nightmare,

I find myself bronco busted—

(Flailing the air)

Huuklyeand Cinquor Telling Us in Fifteen Words or Less Why Poetry is Still Alive

Poetry hasn’t died yet because

Everyone who's anyone's still wondering why

It’s alive.

Moderator’s comments: If this is poetry, no wonder everyone’s wondering.

Crepuscle

Inviolate

In the underbrush, a bed

Of crimson mushrooms;

In the clearing, a quilt

Of blue anemones;

Tucked away in the study,

A burnished copper

Penny for your thoughts.

Chthonian

No more walls,

No more fight,

No more shadow

Boxing against light,

How deft we were all

At darting left and right.