If I taught poetry to students,
I’d ask them to write in the
language they think in and
use the thesaurus wisely
when they don’t.
A simple sentence like
the petrichor wafts through
the mountains, bringing
with it the smell of rich earth
dampened by the rain can
turn into a pappyshow of
decent writing when some genius
with no command over the
language uses synonyms in
an abominable way. They’ll
say, the petrichor transmits through
the eminence escorting with it
the sniff of rich Gaia,
moistened by the torrent,
and you’ll end up wondering
if you should give up
reading and writing altogether.
It’s a common flaw of a lot of
‘poetesses’ here,
and it gets worse because
you can’t help but wonder
why magazines
and people endorse them,
publishing or
re-blogging lines like
the prominence sang of
the auguries of mastication,
an eye, a hole, a soothsayer
travels through the nimbus
mundanity. Anyhow (not to
sound elitist or judgemental here),
mediocrity endorses mediocrity,
creating Mount Rushmores out of
badly written lines and abhorrent
wordplay, alliteration sounding more
like the clash of pots and pans
and the eldritch shrieks of
some otherworldly, malevolent entity
than sweet birds singing.
That and the lust of a horny poet
whose friends and foes are all
online — strangers he’s never
met — making him resort to
obsequious bowing and scraping
and re-blogging, hoping that big,
juicy, fat arse
he sees in a picture will one
day share a bedroom with him
changes everything.
Ordinary Person 
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