>Modern poetry su-



The best job I had was moving a stone

from one side of the road to the other.

This required a permit which required

a bribe. The bribe took all my salary.

Yet because I hadn’t finished the job

I had no salary, and to pay the bribe

I took a job moving the stone

the other way. Because the official

wanted his bribe, he gave me a permit

for the second job. When I pointed out

that the work would be best completed

if I did nothing, he complimented 

my brain and wrote a letter

to my employer suggesting promotion

on stationery bearing the wings

of a raptor spread in flight

over a mountain smaller than the bird.

My boss, fearing my intelligence,

paid me to sleep on the sofa

and take lunch with the official

who required a bribe to keep anything

from being done. When I told my parents,

they wrote my brother to come home

from university to be slapped

on the back of the head. Dutifully,

he arrived and bowed to receive

his instruction, at which point

sense entered his body and he asked

what I could do by way of a job.

I pointed out there were stones

everywhere trying not to move,

all it took was a little gumption

to be the man who didn’t move them.

It was harder to explain the intricacies

of not obtaining a permit to not

do this. Just yesterday he got up

at dawn and shaved, as if the lack

of hair on his face has anything

to do with the appearance of food

on an empty table.



- After working 60 hours a day for what reason 

by Bob Hicok

>-cks

What you posted is prose with arbitrary line breaks. This is not poetry and there's nothing remarkable about it anyway.

>>21983909 (OP)

speaking as a chud, i think i'll stick to my kipling

Of every poet you could have said you chose Kipling. Wow.

>>21983909 (OP)

>picrel

>Those who survived would often remember these horrors with a certain aesthetic to them. In that mycoidal phantom blooming in the dawn like an evil lotus and in the melting of solids not heretofore known to do so stood a truth that would silence poetry a thousand years. Like an immense bladder, they would say. Like some sea thing. Wobbling slightly on the near horizon. Then the unspeakable noise. They saw birds in the dawn sky ignite and explode soundlessly and fall in long arcs earthward like burning party favors.

The Passenger by Cormac McCarthy

Kipling has some lovely stuff.

>>21983909 (OP)

>Poetry is

>When you add arbitrary

>line breaks throughout

>paragraphs that can be

>pretty

>plain when written plainly

BOOOHOOO atom bombs exist get over it old faggot i'm more offended the poem in op exists it really is bad.

Kipling is great, retard
