I have no poems left to write. The end
has not come with a bang; it's rather sad
that Eliot was right. He's been no friend
to poets of today -- the fame he had
has left us feeling broken and undone,
a foetus in a womb long dead and rotten,
or candle flames beside a blazing sun,
a dull, insipid light too soon forgotten.
It's here, if I were true to form, I'd write
some vulgar, flippant line to shift the tone,
or whine that other poetry is trite
and never half as clever as my own.
But as I said, the poetry is gone
and only foetid echoes linger on.