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[Pilgrim]

I've already
made it
into the
hearts of those
diseased and
indisposed.

-

Like a droopy ballsack,
you hang over my mouth
words wrinkled and wet.

[Remember: I am far less vile than
your stench on a cold morning.]

Quite lucid when I'm loaded, yes.
And the drinks help me remember
why I ever liked you in the first place.

-

You can find me running around corners,
cursing in nondescript accents,
trying not to mention the hemorrhage
that comes with knowing yourself too well.

Hello, newsclippings.

As with music, some commentators say, there is no such thing as good or bad poetry – there is just poetry.

Whether or not this is true, reading what you had written got me to thinking about the function(s) of poetry.

Poetry, I thought, can entertain, amuse, offer an insight, or generally move the reader emotionally. Occasionally it can remain with the reader, not just as a fragment of memory, but as a permanent possession of the mind. Inevitably it is a reflection of the age in which it was written.

Alas, I confess that I did not understand your poem. But I came away from it, nevertheless, with a feeling of unease. In the course of several attempts at analysis, I found bitterness, recrimination, and an underlying ugliness.

Reading it was not a pleasant experience, though it might just be one that I will remember. So perhaps I should add to my provisional list of the functions of poetry, that of disturbance of the reader.

Regards,

Pilgrim.