The overwhelming poetic urge to bare every wrinkle

Rainy day, quite heavy at times – but it makes a reasonably nice change. Drove Ottawacker Jr. into school as he was finishing his presentation for school – and had the school photo to make sure he was well coiffed for.
 
Worked reasonably well, then settled in to watch the Liverpool vs. West Ham game in the Carabao Cup. Won 5-1, but it wasn’t as comfortable as it sounds.
 
In the evening, started reading a friend’s most recent collection of poetry, which I had bought a while ago but put off reading as I was never in the mood to run a bath, climb into it, and then open my veins. What the hell is it about modern poets that primarily makes them think they have to share every single trauma they have ever had in every single poem they ever write? Having said that, there were some good lines “We have language for everything / But no words” – but it just didn’t do it for me. I only started reading it because I saw an appalling review of the work (which praised it well enough – but it was clear the guy hadn’t read the book). Now, I am no poet – but it seems to me that if people can say something simply, innate cleverness will shine through. When you try to be clever… Anyway, I’ve only read two-thirds of it, so it might improve.