I may have made a few ill-natured remarks in my time about my feelings in regards to the poetry voice, but I am, in fact, a keen—albeit a silent—reader of poetry. (Some people's poetry, that is; not everyone's; I do discriminate freely.)
Consider my surprise then when a very welcome parcel stuffed with a friend's recent books and catalogues arrived, featuring this notice written prominently on the front:
I was quite taken aback. (The essays by Gregory O'Brien are superb: in one he quotes the Swedish poet-philosopher Lars Gustafsson, who said that the artist should handle ideas with consummate care and ease—"the skill with which a German handles a boiled egg." Which has prompted me to seek out more of Gustafsson's writings.)
The small guy, who seems alarmingly keen on reading poetry out loud, recently wrote an environmental poem featuring (I think) slant rhymes. A transcription appears below, as it's been on the windowsill.
The fish are farting
The whales are eating fast food,
The sharks are trying to look good.
The fish are farting in the reef,
and the toilet seat has teeth.