Is it possible that
Everything that needs to be written
Has already been wrtiiten
And that
The great scrum of words
That boil out of my fetid and fevered imagination
Are merely swill upon the page
Vomited up
In the service of the ultimate dictator
And destroyer of consciousness
In us all-
Ego?
Ten (or is it one hundred?) monkeys
Sitting and probably shitting
At their respective keyboards
Given enough thyme
So the scientists say-
Could produce the entire canon
Of world literature on everything
That has already been written
Not by these scientists at their keybaords
But by actual true and reliable
Human beings.
This denigration of art
Lays a fart
And is fit only for a tart
Who in life never had a start!
We are a world apart!
This mechanized mind
Of the mechanical kind
Can never find in me
A reason to be!
So the poet's demise
They will never realize
Our art is life-
Their ego strife!
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