I shall always cherish my screen name, Starward,
as I (and at least one other) believe that Christ
Himself bestowed it upon me across a sequence of
events which I need not describe here,
certainly not to be described to the likes of you---
Insinuator, Imitator.
But, among my many reasons to despise you,
your appellation shares letters with mine---a
situation I find almost intolerable. I shall
hate and despise you until my final breath, a
failing on my part (no, not of the Gospel nor the
grandeur of the Orthodox Faith; but solely on my part
while I am yet in this corrupt flesh and broken world).
You were proud of the date rape that drove Lady
Flowerchild from our campus: this beautiful girl,
who militantly disliked shoes (except when weather or
surfaces were not cooperative);
whose collection of socks---all solid colors and their
pastel variants---seemed inexhaustible; but that was
not enough for you. And then you wrote about it in
that derivative, imitative, style you insisted must be
taken as Poetry. You wrote about it again and again,
because, as you explained, you had something to
say and every right to say it; and that, if nothing else,
disqualified you from the title Poet. Poetry is not
democracy, it is meritocracy---a merit, I am thankful to
say, that you never achieved, at least on the internet.
What you did to Lady Flowerchild . . .
I shall hate and despise you until my final breath . . .
Starward