The Disastrous State of Modern Poetry

Kyle Foley


    how when i glance at an anthology of contemporary poetry am i reminded of how much i
loathe the state we have fallen in

    why can’t poets embrace the riveting surge of enthusiastic mind-flight?
    why can they not allow their imaginations to cloud-soar into flamazing realms of
unparalleled newness?

    if the poet refuses
    to shun the ordinary
    deny the humdrum
    and ascend into sceptered kingdoms of euphony dazzlèzzan then who will?!

    is it not so much more platmo-brilliant when we read words more electro-eloquent than
those in an ordinary essay?!

    where is the originality?!
    where is the creativity?!

    who will pay attention to us if we descend into the snoring dust of unspectacular confusica?
    our voices stifled by unimaginative clutter
    our domains littered with waste, refuse and snot-drab

    where are the poets who possess a truly unique perspective on reality
    their eyes hypno-glowing with alluring morph?!
    their souls on the brink of spirit-tumult?!
    rage-orcs bellowing incessently in their ears?!

    where are the poets who are willing
    to penetrate the jungles of chaos
    search for images of omni-flowing splashèzza
    and assemble words into a vast symphony of hallucinagetic dance?!    

    what happened to madness!?
    to the spiraling hyper-dance!?
    the wind-swept schizum!?      

    what happened to the poet who shuns the common herd
    is repulsed by their shallowness
    their cheap thrills
    swine-blubber gagging their throats
    and travels to the fringe
    explores, fights, wrestles, and succumbs to agonies that the soldiers of capitalism are unable
to succumb to!?      

    where is there any evidence of such dashing fang in contemporary poetry!?

    and what of passion?  

    during my research of contemporary poetry i have found only two poems that have
enflamed me with sky-crashing, havocing, and battle-furious adventurotica!        

    how easily do i slip into exhausted yawn when i read these obtuse poems!    

    fumes!  spider-storms!
    dryasdust leeches gouging my eyes!

    and what of enthusiasm?  

    is it not supra-wondrous when we meet someone
    who is riled with conviction glostonishan
    whose thoughts send them into deluge explosèevo
    strength and absorption surrounding them decisively?

    and what of intensity?          

    why is rapturum ecstatican so rare?
    how infrequently does a poem jolt me with adreno-blast majestican?

    is intensity not one of life’s precious elements
    its rareness and its diamo-bliss to be truly enrubified!?

    whenever i encounter comet-striking intensity
    i cannot help but allow it to consume me in flash-waves spiraling
    my heart arush with icaran fervor
    thunder-joy rattling in the background
    crimson haze rising from the abysm      

    yet i can find no poet that truly yields to intensity!!
    blaze-gems rapting them in rainbowèskan vodka!
    cloud-shimmers blanketing them with silverado!  

    agonium slashèzzan!!  
    flame-attack toxican!!

    how comforting it is to read words that mirror our pain when we are ambushed by
stress incredeeblican,
    or leopard-scarred by needle-deluge
    on the cliff
    looking on as rubyesque waves angrily lust for our flesh!
    but no one seems to have the courage to give expression to this mind-flaring, electro-striking and vein-splicing tumultua!!


Kyle Foley is the founder of, a website that can calculate the truth-value of metaphysical statements. He lives in San Diego, California.