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87 The Sermon on the Poets When in the chronicle of wasted time i turn off MTV and read another slender gorgeous book, i think how weary i am of poets with their blowsy beauties with two lips like unto two cherries and cushion-thumping about deadly death among the bare and ruined choirs. futzing with words, they try to caulk the cracks in their philosophy with bumsquabble, make little worlds up cunningly of Derrida and angelic spit, but they’re unclean as Cupid’s itch. Like con artists they cloud their waters to make them seem profound. They write with the angels’ amber voices. They have to, because they stammer, blurt out drippy tummy lines. Peacock of peacocks, with vanity as wide as ’twere the sea, they’re certain with the proper education the rest of us would give a fiddler’s fuck. ...

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