The "poem" about the "Poet"

I once wrote a poem for a "poetry workshop" called "The Poet." I was inspired to write it out of sheer frustration, vitriol & childish pleasure after being subjected to the masturbatory monologues of the "resident poet," the "facilitator of the workshop" during the first "session." The poem that I wrote was composed of a series of blunt statements: "The Poet licks Mayakovsky's asshole," "The Poet is a bum disguised as a lecher," etc. The other "participants" in the workshop, those gathered around the rickety table in a moldy chamber of untouched poetry books, didn't quite know how to a muster a response, drained as they were of all inspiration after having listened to an hour of poems & their subsequent "critiques," or "readings." They made their rounds of inane comments, stamped their feet, their fists, expressed total confusion, utter indifference. A few friends had joined me for this workshop & were trying to hide their laughter with their hands. I sat there dead still, a poker-faced charlatan. The "resident poet" offered up his "critique" then excused himself, scampering off to the toilet. A girl at the end of the table with permed bangs that jostled over her eyes said, "I just don't understand what you're trying to do. Do you? Maybe you could help me, help us understand." Maybe I could've, now thinking back on it, but then I wouldn't be able to see my friends trying to hide their laughter in a ship of fools.