Imagine if you scheduled surgery,
then learned your doctor---in crass arrogance---
boasted about his rough-edged ignorance
of even some basic anatomy.
Would you be frightened for your very life
before submitting to his wielded knife?
So I am frightened when I read, or see,
incompetence applied to Poetry---
to make it just a sloppy casualty,
mangled by existential "Woe is me"
exuded from attention-seeking hearts,
that pass their flatulance like cabbage farts.
This sonnet has no pretensions to be
more than a metaphor or simile.
Starward