If this is poetry, my dogs speak Russian.
Well, they understand a bit of English and Portuguese, so they’re bi-aural. But no speak Russian my dogs.
But those who walk the halls of Yale and Harvard and other sniffy places where the nose arrives before other body parts think that monkeys write Shakespeare, so why shouldn’t this jumble of syllables and letters send the hearers into ecstasy?
No rhyme or reason, no meter or meaning, and this at the apex of literary achievement.
And not only do my dogs not speak or even understand Russian, they do sniff backsides. Apparently, they’re not alone.
UPDATE: Sales of the poet’s work are far below expectations.