Simone White on Poetry

poetry, that which had never failed
failed
all i invented were new ways to arrange things as time On my nerves
every word they say another source of fucking chagrin
in poetry as life, forms appear meaningless before my anger. i cannot find “a logic” aside
from straight dope capable to pierce the exactitude of pure rage. losing the original
thread or intention of the poem emotionally or its having spent itself in encounter with
its Master emotion

Simone White (an excerpt from or, on being the other woman)