Poetry
in its refined, unwavering, unconcerned form
is not pretty

It grabs you by the throat
and places you in the mirror,
naked, framed, revealed
with your daily frauds
and innermost forgeries

Most of you simply play poets,
to glaze and enamel
your all to human filth

Poetry is not an embrace,
but a hard slap in the face;
a tough roll call
and stone cold marching orders

All your pretty faces are denied