You Dilute My Pool

I want to discuss this concept of standards with you, but I am getting pissed off. Ten minutes pass and I don’t even hear you anymore. Something about the glut of shit poetry and the moral obligation to protect the pool. I think you are kidding, in the beginning of this. You start to use words that sound vaguely nazi, then words like purity, then concoct crazy concepts about gatekeepers and collective compromises, barriers, essential filters that must remain intact. For what, some impending inspection of the humans? Will somebody check to see if Shakespeare perseveres? What, him? It’s not about him, it’s about the pool. Diluting the pool. Stepping away from the heirloom variety by a factor of five.

You accuse me of being incapable of wrapping my head around objective rubrics, I need this explained to me again. You want to make subjectivity objective?

I think about a checklist for The Poem you have in mind that makes the cut. In this scenario, you are reflecting something Hellenic, and you bring balance to your speech patterns. I’m almost tricked by you. You’re wearing your poetry eyes.

I don’t want us to go down this way, but this is a fight worth making, this is a place where we are just gonna part ways, cupcake. I don’t want to go down this way, but this talk’s gotta die.