I am clearly not getting it, because this is what passes for award-winning poetry in Australia RIGHT NOW:

Clearly I am wasting my time writing poems, even if it’s just for shits and giggles, because this has no merit at all, yet somehow found its way into the Year 12 matriculation English exam, where admittedly a whole generation of clued-up final-year student appear to have given it the almighty collective finger.  So, all you bitches, just STFU and listen, because here’s my (going) contribution to the world of shit poetry:

 

GHERKIN

.

spoiled for choice

forty-nine, lose my voice,

my Mecca, this Maccas

waiting, waistline wasted,

take my ticket

wait amid the waistful thicket

silent–should have upsized, too late now–regret it

might come back later

they won’t remember

my face, her face, our faces

our slow-shuffling paces

our tribal chanting muffled

as we apologetically snuffle

“No pickles please”

Young gum-chewing jaw arrested

By cashier’s baleful glare attested:

“We call them ‘gherkins’ here.”

.

No.32

Erik Kaisson, 2017

.

See what I did there?  I right-justified the whole bloody thing!  Cool, huh?  They’ll have to take me seriously now!  Right-justified!  Hoo-ee!

I know, I know, I’ll never be a real poet.  I just struggle to take myself THAT seriously — plus I’m male, middle-aged and white — like anybody since 1957 has wanted to read more by that guy!

Even if I had raw animal talent it wouldn’t be enough, and I am not an animal!  I am a human being!

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