Sour Creme Poem by Andy Brookes

Look me up in whose who in the poetry world he said.
between Kant and Keats, my prideful words are there
black upon the white or cream vellum, milk straight from the cow

mine are all cream or did he mean creme de la creme
still crap also floats before it revolves spinning in ever deceasing circles
out the fundement, into the pan, down into the sewers I thought

I digress he said I wouldn't bother if I were you
its not literature, you're not, a dramatic pause, an artist.
or did I miss hear?

your little ditties are fine for a summer evening but their substance.
where is their substance? tissues to be used and then discarded in the trash.

too many adjectives he laughed,
I could give you one or two I mumbled on that parting note.