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by G.S. Murphy

I read the reviews of several critics who have seen/ read my poetry,

        The first critic was highly impressed with performance, rhythm, voice, confidence and

overall spoken word ability, but then wrote that the words themselves were as substantial as

pancake batter, and with only a little heat, the poems themselves would be empty, limp, flaccid,

he impressed himself on how many ways to call the work ‘uninspired’

        The second critic was very the much polar opposite, stating that my per formative style

was too borrowed from late 90’s slam poets appearing in russel simmons def poetry, he liked the

actual words though,

He compared my poetry to a lesser known mentally enfeebled cousin of Charles Bukowski who

has somehow stolen a box a crayons and learned to read 10 minutes prior to writing poetry. But

damn, he compared me to Bukowski!

        The third critic was simply mean,

saying that I was just all-around bad,

lack of scope,

lack of voice,

the depth of pimple and just as superficial,

He did state that he’d experienced worse poetry, but typically that came in the form of recycled

shit paper and usually was of better of literary quality after use.

I love critics, they are a special audience,

the three of them are becoming good friends, hog-tied and ball-gags all around,

they stare at me from the floor of my basement while I make smores with a small acetylene torch

and read them reams of my favorite original material,

I’ve never seen such captive fans.

About the Author

G.S. is a poet and photographer currently living in Geneva NY. He often writes from a personal, intimate perspective with themes such as family life, motorcycle, firefighting, spirituality and some nonsensical subjects, He lives with his wife and 2 very spoiled dogs.

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