Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Listicle

Amongst the literate and all,
The only floating smell
Is the taint of a listicle.

I was with three writers,
Like a tweet
In which are linked three listicles

The listicle whirled into the author’s shouting morass.
It was a small part of the morality play.

A poem and an essay
Are one.
A poem and an essay and a listicle
Are one.

I do not know which to abhor,
The admonitions of self-help authors
Or the admonitions of republicans,
Reading the listicle
Or just after.

Peacocks laid the long parade
With courtly illuminations.
The shadow of the listicle
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the brilliance
A banal lament.

Oh great writers of Medium,
Why do you imagine love poems?
Do you not see how the listicle
Fills the vacant pages
Of the essays about you?

I know bold phrases
And blunted, awkward constructions;
But I know, too,
That the listicle is involved
In what I know.

When the listicle faded from memory
It marked the scent
Of one of many middens

At the effulgence of listicles
Sagging in purple heaps,
Even the Pandemonium
Collapse in sharp silence.

The poem unraveled over Cleveland
Under blunted hooves.
Once, a fear gilded it,
In that it mis-stated
The brilliance of its charabanc
As listicles.

The shit is redolent of death.
The listicle must be steaming.

It was morning through the night.
It was presenting
And it was going to present.
The listicle squatted
Beside the privy.

Apologies to Wallace Stevens, cf: Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird