And also

The other day I came across the following poem:

Sporting Goods

Brave as a postage stamp
he went his way
gently clapping his hands

to count his steps

his heart red like a wild boar

beat and beat

like a pink and green butterfly

From time to time

he planted a small satin flag

When he had marched for a long time

he sat down to rest

and fell asleep

But from that day on there've been many clouds in the sky

many birds in the trees

much salt in the sea

And also many other things

Phillipe Soupault

I'd read it before, and liked it. But this time I found it strangely disturbing. I thought about why I found it disturbing for a long time, and then I realised.

The poem is so good, what is the point of writing additional poems?

Global literary production could have ceased with this poem, and been satisfied with a job well done.

Admittedly, a lot of poets would now be out of their (non-paying) jobs.

What, then, could we spend our time doing?

Sudoku?

Sudoku.

And also many other things.