Scansion he knew not, nor understood
The current of the higher good
That poets turn to for their light;
Rhythm had he none, and few
Notions you'd call deep, or new;
And writing on, in couplets long,
We could not say that he was wrong,
But knew him not quite right.

His was a hungry turning, blind,
To fill an anorexic mind,
By spilling nouns about like blocks,
Upon a sleepy kitchen floor,
Never enough, yet nevermore.
The cause of hunger never known,
Truth never asked, light left alone,
Painting the souls as broken clocks,
Hoping to fend away the night.

Llewellyn Sapon Gentile
Confessions of a Brussels Sprout
Pon, Deris Publishing
Lily-on-Grime, 1986