How I do hate the poetry of others

How I do hate the poetry of others:
it sticks in my throat
like an attempt to swallow something large and unpleasant,
like an elephant tranquilizer pill or perhaps a smallish whale;
I feel it wriggling as it forces its way down into my brain.

Having to pretend I like this and that [I don't],
notice about that [I notice nothing - it is all incomprehensible],
appreciate this or something about this [wish they'd just shut up],
know the feeling [I don't know the feeling - I just feel numb],
am transformed by a new understanding
[I'm not - I'm stuck forever at the bottom of a deep dark hole].

Hate it all.
Hate it all.
Wish it would stop.
Wish it would all just stop.
Wish it would all just go away.

Until

against every fibre of will in my being
some slight and innocent-looking words on page
refuse to be treated with my usual contempt
and I am destroyed.