Is this poetry?

I am getting sick of the dam, the walls and misconceptions,
the procession of thoughts, the seizures in my head
The stupid patterned bedspread
The swigs of alcohol,taken and forgotten
The cardboard blocks on the windows
Rotten, riddled with dirty holes
The shoes muddy,
And the long lines on pdf files, the blue screen with all its lies
I’m tired, weary.

Twenty pages to go, to catharsis
To reading the meanings behind words
Learning how to read poetry
Between the lines
The commas,
Pause-breaks that mean something
No! The poet implies
Deeper allusions
When he writes symphony instead of music
Ulysses was not a king
He was a paradox
Implied by Tennyson’s lack of words
Or spaces
Or paragraph breaks

Suck it.
What’s wrong with literary critics?
Do they really think poetry is architecture
Constructed with mathematical formulae
Then what is this?
I wave the papers adamantly on my professors face
Then what the fuck is this?

Modern verse,
When you ran out of rhyming words
When iambic pentameter
Just didn’t quite cut it
You’re bleeding out on the paper
Retching black darkness
That reflects the society you’re brought up in.

Tennyson, he was the face of
Victorian split personalities,
His ullyses ran away from ennui,
Called it heroism
And you,
Blacking out science to
Bring out humanity
Winning wars with poetry
Weeping into papers
Running away from the Lang leavs and the ttts
All these ghosts of modern society
Chasing you down while your
Useless arts degree
Hangs on a wall,
And the engineering lab produces
haiku making apps
You’re dead,
Outside, learning how to fudge the gaps inside you
So that you’re longer soft
A sponge that could absorb
Or learn
You’re a rock
Or those defending a rock
Knowing in your heart
That you’re not saving anyone
For every MNC you shut down
Three more spring up

This society truly reflects who
We are
The last of a generation willing to dream
Who will be ironed out
In the giant claws of
And patriarchy
Till all freedom is an illusion,
Orwellian reality
And Marxist dreams.


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