Gary Sange's Dissatisfied Urn
What's up with these 70s poets and their deadly-flat lines? Did someone tell these people to avoid sounding musical at all cost? Is the goal for the poem to be so lifeless and boring that it countered the extravagance of the decade? The only effort at anything resembling lyricism here is "I stare / into the steaming dark I sip / and still cannot exhaust your urn." No wonder Sange and his wife broke up--If the dude couldn't exhaust my urn, I would have dumped him too. Oh wait, he's talking about his coffee cup, and he's the one who dumped her.... my bad. But for truly awful writing, try this "The cacti / on the windowsill / will need water / in three more days." May the Gods of poetry smite Sange down for such lameness. May Adam Hardin be your best reader! My Todd Swift design your website! And may your sideburns eat your chin! Use this thread to either a) curse Gary Sange and the poem he rode in on or b) attempt to write an even flatter stanza than the one I just quoted.