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and a truly ridiculous pride it fosters in the absurd practitioner and the overpaid professor, who takes the most innocent, unsuspecting verses and rapes them with a thesis and fucks them with bullshit?) -- truly, it's a vicious, ludicrous thing, with a mangy heritage it boasts of ad nauseam like a dowager duchess to a bored, profoundly unimpressed company, a pretension to truthfulness and -- listen to this!-- integrity that is, let's face it, absolutely laughable - and it is not even very amusing anymore! Why bother with it! Why, indeed? Shut up! Go away! 
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Do something useful, like deconstructing an English department. If you must versify, keep it to yourself. If you must read the stuff, hide it with shame. It is not heart or flesh, it is not man or woman: you waste your love on the cold heart of a poem. Winter Sunlight In the waters of the bay lies the winter sun fallen through clouds of blackened tin -- stains of corroded light that hold the shadows of the ships in a brightness shifting to dimness, dazzling, fading to appear like shards of beacons,  |
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