after reading [insert name]

I almost get it. All this somersault
of words, this drunken alphabet of sound
lacking a pulse is not the poet’s fault
but just le dernier cri: it’s flarf/prose/found
unmediated, unconsidered, but writ down.
Sense swivels, ricochets. The mashed-up prose
poses the childhood question: who’s the clown
and who’s fooled by this Emperor’s new clothes?

D A Prince

If you have any comments on this poem, D A Prince would be pleased to hear from you.