Anti-Intelligentsial? Nah.

The A.I. Poets have 
no day, so long as Art 
is real green gold in 
hearty minds for spirits 
souled to highest bid: 

One Name. 
All Hold. 

They can remix like 
wrapped-up punks 
the blackest fits 
of isneon. Yet 

who the hell gives 
sh!ts on names? 

When Adam was 
the onliest one so 
clepen-clatched by 
own decree. She 

found a worm. 

That apple's FREE. 

And I write wreaking 
well-wrought tales by 
older seas than Rome, 

we'll fail. But while 
we live, grow up 
upright and see Art's Sake 
is sushi-cut, and see hipsnake 
is no new euph
-onious sound 

just gar 
licked
good.

SO
OOF. 

Let's give. This 
needs 
no sacrifice. For life, 
to live, to breathe in 
strife that never ends 

meets suffering. The worst 
attachment all men seem 

to bring.