Rant

They say
I'm not modern enough:
I have
nothing to say that's new.
I stand
accused: arch prolixity-
a crime
in times of sparely writ
lit-lite.
Angry
I am, indeed enough
to rant
and rave in verbosely
hot rage.

Fuck you
all, tasteful arbiters!
I'll take
my spats and ear trumpet
to the
Queen of the Mayflies' ball.
Take your
urban, gritty truths and
place them
in your own fundament.
My gut
rejects your hip-hop
right-on
spare monosyllables.
I'll read
them through ribboned pince-nez
and rue
the lack of adjectives.
Don't thrust
your Carver in my face;
keep your pared prose, I don't
need it.